whitehall university
by boleynqueens
Summary: modern college au "She is a book he wants to keep reading, and he is utterly, hopelessly lost in her."
1. Chapter 1

**From: 323-431-231**  
 **To: Katherine Aragon**  
 **Sent August 20th, 2016, Saturday, 4:00 AM**

Henry Tudor has tagged you in a relationship status

"Henry Tudor is in an Open Relationship with Katherine Aragon"

Press "1" to like

 **From: Katherine Aragon**  
 **To: Henry Tudor**  
Sent August 20th, 2016, Saturday, 4:02 AM

What the fuck is this?

 **From: Henry**

Morning, love.

 **From: Katherine**

Henry, WTF?!

 **Henry:**

Don't know what you're referring to.

 **Katherine:**

Your "relationship" status?

 **Henry:**

You posted engagement photos. I told you not to.

 **Katherine:**

This is so embarrassing!

 **Henry:**

I could've put "single".

 **Katherine:**

You wouldn't dare.

 **Henry:**

I still want to marry you. But it's years down the line. And since we're at different schools and countries in the meantime…we agreed to be open. You agreed. Remember?

 **Katherine:**

Yes, but not where people can see! It's humiliating.

 **Henry:**

Well, then, maybe neither of us should have a relationship status. Make it clear it's no one's business but ours.

 **Katherine:**

Fine.

 **Henry:**

Perfect.

 **Katherine:**

Asshole.

 **Henry:**

Tsk, tsk. What an unchristian thing to say!

 **Katherine:**

Fucker.

 **Henry:**

Gotta unpack. Bye!

 **August 25th, 2016, Thursday, 7:30 am**

Whitehall University is considered by most magazine and newspaper ranking lists to be the most prestigious, wealthiest, exclusive higher education institutes in the world.

Henry Tudor, whose father has contributed immeasurably to the university's wealth, is Whitehall's wealthiest student, a fair feat.

He is not only rich, but also handsome, a younger man that radiates a sort of unavoidable, golden charisma. Those close to him feel his warmth, those far away yearn for it. He's regarded as a demigod on campus, with all the reverence that comes with his station in life.

Katherine, whose parents are impossibly rich, even more so than Henry's, is his fiancée. She was accepted into Whitehall, but didn't want to go to school in the states. She's been there a few times and finds its people ignorant and the poverty appalling; a private health care system and educational system that bankrupts so many citizens is an immoral country; in her opinion, and she will only go there when she must.

She goes to Oxford.

She is pretty, diminutive, rigidly religious, and only a few years Henry's senior. He's known her for most of his life, dated her for seven years. He loves her; he truly does.

But that doesn't stop him from sleeping with other girls- not by a long shot.

One of them is in his bed right now-Betty? Lizzy? One of those. She's gorgeous, blonde, and rolls the best joints. He's slept with her before. He should know her name by now, but it's not like he's going to give himself a hard time about it.

His best friend, Brandon, is his dorm mate. He has the best one on campus- he didn't have to have a roommate but Brandon's on scholarship and he didn't want him to be stuck with some loser like last year.

Henry "won it" (read: bought it) in the lottery for the room that all students can apply for.

It's spacious, and they have giant rods with curtains for occasions when they have overnight guests.

It has its own private bathroom and shower.

He washes his face there now with a bar of Irish Spring, patting his face dry with a towel. Next he brushes his teeth, scraping the fuzzy, remaining feel of beer from his tongue. Spits, rinses with mouthwash. Looks at himself in the mirror, satisfied.

Today's going to be a good day.

Henry knows this with the confidence of someone whose had a life of mainly good days.

 **August 25th, 2016, Thursday, 2:00 PM**

Mary Boleyn is begging her sister to join her at her sorority party.

Begging to the point of annoyance.

Anne, her younger sister, swats her away, intent on her History notes.

"You don't need to study all the way to Friday night– college is supposed to be about being well-rounded, not a square. And we've barely started classes."

Anne ticks off on her fingers: "1.) This square needs to maintain a 3.8 GPA to keep her scholarship. 2.) we've been in classes for 2 weeks–where have you been? And 3.), I don't like sorority girls."

"You like me!"

"Debatable."

Mary joins her at the cafe's table, closing her open textbook.

"Hey!"

"You loooove me. C'mon."

"No, thank you," she insists, prissy as hell, Mary thinks.

"There's gonna be cute guys there."

"Oh my God!" Anne gasps, clutching her chest, putting on a high, affected voice, "like, why didn't you say so?!"

"Anne," she says, with sudden solemnity, changing tacks "if you're not there, I'll be so bored. Who will I talk shit in French with? No one!"

"Your French is not that great."

"Rude!"

"But true."

"Lizzy Blunt–"

"Blunt? That cannot be her name–"

"Blount, whatever, believe me, she has earned the nickname–but anyway, she's going to be there, and she's going to poach all the hot guys from me and I need someone to have my back! I need a wing woman."

"What about your OTHER sisters? You know, the ones you live with?"

"Ugh, no. They're self serving hos that only look out for themselves."

"Then why do you Iive there?" Anne asks, laughing.

"It's the best way to keep my dance scholarship. They have files of all the old lecture notes and finals."

"What?"

"Oh, " Mary says with faux, wide eyed innocence, "have I not mentioned that?"

"Mary…"

"I mean, we're not really supposed to share them with anyone. It's supposed to be a privilege, a perk you earn with all the dues you have to pay with being a Beta Thau sister…"

"Ok, wait–"

"But, I don't know. You're so smart," she says, getting up from the table with a shrug 'it's not like that would interest you…"

"Mary!"

"I think I'm gonna go get a latte. do you want any–"

"When's the party?"

"Tomorrow at midnight, come over at 10!" she chirps, blowing her sister a kiss.

 **August 25th, 2016, Thursday, 6:30 PM**

Anne is walking across campus, on her way from her library, when her phone buzzes in her pocket

 **From: Mary Boleyn**  
come over at 7. password is jimmy choos.

 **From: Anne** **Boleyn**  
don't know what you've been smoking, but it's not Friday.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**  
rude! i know. come over tODAY at 7 :p

 _Why?_

She's just about to press send when she runs smack into someone and drops all her books and her phone.

"No, no, no…"

She searches frantically for her cell phone. It's not anywhere on the pavement.

"Thank God!"

It's just on the grass, so the screen isn't cracked. She wipes the screen on her sweater.

"Anne?"

The voice is familiar. She looks up.

"Tom? Oh my God!"

She hugs her old friend, laughing with surprise.

"Hey," he says easily, hands in pockets. "Sorry for running–"

"No, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking–"

"Except, happy to run into you."

She blushes, suddenly shy and looking at her feet.

"Um–"

"Here, where are my manners," he says, picking up her books from the ground and handing them to her.

"Thank you."

"Been a while," she says, organizing the books in her arms by title, "I, I had no idea you went here."

"Well, we haven't talked in a while."

"Right. Are you...still doing music?"

"Well, that is my major, so I would say so."

"Oh, great. I'm glad."

"Yeah. My dad says this is a great place for it– that at least the homeless are warm in Los Angeles."

"I see he's much the same."

"He is, but he's not paying for it, so it doesn't matter what he thinks."

There's an edge to his voice, a sort of forced optimism that makes Anne wince.

"So you have a scholarship, too?"

"Yes. Well, partial. The rest I make up with work-study."

"That's awesome. You're so talented, I'm not that surprised."

"Thank you. Can I," he leans down to pick up her paper cup, "buy you another coffee to replace the one I knocked over?"

"Oh that's sweet, but I'm actually supposed to meet someone right now–"

"Ah."

"Mary! I'm on my way to meet Mary."

Why is she saying that? She doesn't care if he thinks she's meeting a guy, let him think that. She doesn't need to spare his feelings. It's not like he ever did that for her, back when they went to the same high school.

She hates that seeing him is affecting her like this. It's been two years since Thomas Wyatt has occupied her thoughts and it took her a while to cultivate that.

"Tell her I say hi."

"I will. She didn't tell me you went here, too."

"Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise."

"Maybe."

"Don't you…?"

"Right! Don't want to be late, you know Mary… See you around."

"Nice to see you!" He calls, waving, but she's already walking towards the girls' dorms, and she can't see him.

She's not even an ex girlfriend, really. But she's an ex maybe, an ex…something. Enough of a something that he feels a tightness in his chest as she walks away, enough of a something that he was excited to see her, enough of a something that he felt his hands shake and had to hide them in his pockets.

Enough of something that he shouldn't be feeling, given that he has a girlfriend.

 **August 25th, 2016, Thursday, 6:59 PM**

This house is too pink, Anne thinks with a grimace. Pink like pastels, pink like my little Pony, pink like Pepto Bismol. Having to look at it is making her eyes hurt.

The knocker on the front of the door is in the shape of a heart.

She uses it, then waits in the bright August heat on the front porch for someone to answer.

A blonde girl swings the door open, blinking at her owlishly.

"Ji-"

"Come in!" The girl says, sweeping her arm in a gesture of welcome.

So much for the password.

"Thank you," she says, stepping inside, "do you know where–"

"You're so pretty."

"Oh, well. Thanks."

The interior, Anne notes, is much less nauseating than the exterior. There's a cluster of black and white love seats, and a framed print of Van Gogh's Starry Night. Vintage 1920s style tables surround the couches, along with pretty damask red and taupe lamps covered in beads and glitter.

"Lizzy!"

Another blonde comes down the stairs, her hair tied in a bun. She's not as pretty as the first, with sort of a thin face, but in a pleasant way. She kind of reminds Anne of Sarah Jessica Parker.

"Did you ask for the password?"

"Oh!" Her hand shoots to her mouth, "sorry, Jen, I forgot."

Lizzy turns to Anne, looking as if she's on the verge of laughter, and asks in a, stern, booming voice, "Password?"

"Jimmy choos," Anne says, amused by the whole exchange.

"I don't know if that's right–is than right, Jen?"

"You should know!"

Lizzy shrugs blissfully, giving a wide smile.

"Sorry."

Ah, Anne realizes. This must be Lizzy "Blunt".

"Do you know where I can find Mary?"

"Upstairs, the room that has a framed picture of the Eiffel Tower on the door," Jen says, glaring at Lizzy.

"Thanks."

"Byyyeee, Pretty Girl!" Lizzy calls.

Anne shakes her head, knocks on Mary's door.

"Enter!"

Anne comes in to find her older sister sitting on a shag carpet, painting her toenails red.

"Sit!"

Anne opts to sit on the bed.

"I think I just met Lizzy Blunt."

"Body like a Victoria's Secret Angel, voice like Janis Joplin?"

"That's the one. She seemed…nice. Not exactly like a…what did you call her? 'Self serving ho'?"

"Don't be fooled."

"She told me I was pretty," Anne said. That alone made her more likely to defend her.

"Ugh, it's all just an act. She'll kiss any girl if there's a guy she likes in a five mile radius."

"Thanks."

"Don't be so sensitive! You know you're pretty anyway."

Anne shrugs. She doesn't, really. Mary has always been the Pretty One, Anne has always been the Smart One. She wonders if brothers are so evenly split up into one or the other during their lives.

"Anyway, I was thinking of our deal, and I think we definitely need to renegotiate the terms."

"Oh?"

"Because it's not fair! I give you top secret papers to help you with school and all you have to do in return is go to one measly party with me? I mean, I could get into a lot of trouble with the House!"

"Okay…"

"Because I'm going to give you all this stuff for the entire year, I only think it's fair…if you go to parties with me the entire year."

"What? No, I can't, I have to study!"

"We don't have parties all the time. And besides, I always get one guest."

"What If you want to bring a cute guy instead?"

Mary ponders that for a moment.

"Well, then I'd tell you ahead of time–unless you really wanted to come."

"Need I remind you that you can't be going to parties all the time either? You have a scholarship to maintain, too."

"Only a 2.5," she scoffs, "I'm not _that_ dumb"

"You're not dumb,"'Anne says softly.

Mary waves her hand like it doesn't bother her either way.

"I managed to do it last year! I didn't flunk out, remember?"

"I _do_ remember. I remember you calling me sobbing, saying you were close to doing so."

"You can check my homework," she says sweetly. "Just like high school."

"I don't know–"

"You remember high school? We had so much fun. You were the perfect wingwoman. I was able to scoop up any guy I wanted because you were always able to get his friend away! With your…mystery," she giggles on the last word, wagging her eyebrows.

"We were a good team," Anne admits.

And they did have a lot of fun, as Anne remembered– dressed to the nines and managing to sneak into bars, dancing till the sunset at some rooftop party or another…their father, an ambassador, was overseas most of the time, and their mother had passed when they were younger. Their older brother George, had already graduated high school and was on a gap year (which turned into a few) in Europe. All these factors withstanding, the Boleyn girls hardly knew what a curfew was.

"Cmon," Mary says, finishing her pinky toe, "I know you want those tests…we have them from every course! All of last year's! I checked them all."

"Okay, fine! But no trying to hook me up with anyone!" Anne extends her pinky. "Honestly, I don't have time for it. And you remember how that worked out last time...I was reminded of it today. By a certain _someone_."

Mary links her pinky to her little sister's, cheeks coloring, "Oh…you saw him, then?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the heads up."

"I didn't know how to tell you. I was hoping you wouldn't run into him, honestly– it is a pretty big campus."

"Not that big, apparently."

"That's what she–"

"Don't!" Anne says, holding up a hand and laughing despite herself.

"You were thinking it anyway."

 **August 26, 2016, Friday, 11:01 PM**

Henry is scanning the room when he catches Lizzy's eye. She waves at him and beams.

He gives her a half wave back.

"Ah," Brandon says, "I remember her from this morning."

"Mmhmm. Twice in a row might be enough, though."

"Really? I'm pretty sure she's the hottest girl here."

Henry shrugs, as if he has model-hot girls in his bed all the time. To be fair, Brandon knows that he does, in fact, but if he didn't know him he might think him overconfident.

"No," Henry says suddenly, nodding towards a girl sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, " _that's_ the hottest girl at this party."

"Nice," Brandon agrees.

The girl in question is tall, with soft, delicate features and a pretty smile. Her dark blonde curls cascade around her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed and she's wearing brown lace-up boots that show off her long legs.

Brandon doesn't think she's prettier than Lizzy aesthetically speaking. Lizzy has a bigger chest and this one a slimmer waist. This one has a ski slope nose while Lizzy has a button one. They're both the same height, both blue-eyed blondes…personally Brandon thinks it has more to do with the fact that she's new, but he's not about to criticize his friend.

She looks impatient, like she's waiting for someone, tapping her foot against the coffee table.

A dark haired girl makes her way over to her. Brandon can only see the back of her head, so he's not going to swipe in yet.

The brunette passes the blonde a drink– Brandon reads her lips– "thank you."

"Aren't you going to say hi?"

Henry looks at him and scoffs.

"No."

He drains the rest of his cup, then winks at the girl in question

"Watch and learn," he says, patting his friend on the back and making a quick exit.

—  
 **August 26, 11:01 PM**

"Oh my God, that's Henry Tudor."

"Who?" Anne asks.

"I can't with you. He's only–don't look!" She cries when she sees Anne start to turn her head, "oh my god, don't look, Be cool–"

"Chill."

"Oh my god. Oh my god." Mary collapses against the pillows. "Swear to God, he just winked at me. He is so hot. He's– he's leaving! Ok, now you can look."

Anne does.

"See the guy with the buzz cut next to the painting….wearing the white jersey? The hot one?"

"Yes," Anne says. She doesn't go for men that are too good looking. They tend to be full of themselves. This guy looks nervous though, suddenly alone, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

"That's his friend, Brandon, he follows him everywhere and he's _going_ to follow him if you don't distract him right now."

"I–what am I supposed to say?" Anne says, feeling panicky at the prospect. This is a lot less notice than Mary typically gave her at high school parties.

Mary scans the room and waves someone over– who, Anne can't tell.

"Ok, he's looking all over the place like a lost puppy– you know what you need to do. Time is of the essence."

"What?!"

"I do _not_ ," Mary says emphatically, leaving her cup on the coffee table, "want to be interrupted."

"What?" Anne whisper-shouts, panicked, gesturing. Mary walks backwards and makes a kissy face, then, as if communicating to a child, uses her hands to make kissing hand puppets, then throws her sister two thumbs up before scampering off.

"What's up?" Lizzy asks, taking Mary's previous seat on the couch.

"Ah, ah" Anne stammers, trying to keep an eye on Brandon while also trying to focus on the task at hand. His attention seemed to have drifted.

She's never done anything like this before and, since she's running out of time, she figures bluntness is the best and only course of action.

"Wanna make out?" she blurts.

"Sure!" Lizzy says brightly, taking a seat next to her.

Since Anne asked she figured she'd have to initiate, but Lizzy is all too eager. She takes Anne's face in her hands, smiling, and presses her mouth against hers, softly.

They start off slow. Anne's never kissed a girl before. It's nice, she thinks. Less pressure. And Lizzy tastes like blueberry lip balm and only slightly of beer–not a bad combination, weirdly enough.

Lizzy starts to run her hand through Anne's long hair. Anne nips Lizzy's bottom lip, ever so gently and the other girl giggles.

She starts to get lost in the kissing, until she hears the male cheers.

Right. This isn't for fun. She's on a sisterly mission.

She opens her eyes to check to see where Brandon is. He hasn't moved an inch, and he's staring at them, mouth agape.

Mary was right. Boys are so easy.

Mission accomplished.

Eventually Lizzy breaks the kiss– Anne sits back and watches as the other girl turns around, presumably because the guy behind her, now crooking his finger, just tapped her on the shoulder.

Lizzy giggles, then looks back at Anne with a wide-eyed, ingenue expression, biting her lip, asks, " you don't mind, do you?"

Anne shakes her head, smiling. Lizzy takes her admirer's hand and he helps her get up from the couch.

The guy nods to Anne and says, "she can come too."

"No thanks, I'm good," Anne says, deciding this is her cue to go.

It seems that the end of a female-only kiss has made the male voyeur group disperse, Anne notes wryly, tossing her red cup on her way to the kitchen.

The room is empty. There's an ashtray on the island full of cigarettes and a few half empty glasses, deserted.

Anne's grateful to be alone. She goes over to the sink to wash her hands. She washes slowly, humming the 'happy birthday' song to herself, an old habit ingrained by her mother. She's trying to use the moment to steady herself, hoping that this isn't what Mary's expecting from every party, because it's taken a lot out of her.

Anne can captivate a crowd, or a man, easily enough, sometimes without even really consciously trying. It's subtle, like a light switching, where suddenly everyone notices her.

But she always feels strange after, like maybe she shouldn't like the attention. Maybe she wants something more real than glitter on the surface that draws notice. Maybe she wants someone to see her.

"Was that for me?"

Anne turns around to the husky voice behind her to find Brandon, apparently notorious friend of (apparently notable, according to Mary) Henry Tudor.

"Excuse me?"

"You were looking at me," he shrugs, smirking, "that's all."

She was looking at him. Can't defend herself from that. Can't betray her sister's confidence for telling him the real reason why.

 _What the hell_ , she thinks, drinking in the muscles straining against his capped white sleeves, a jawline that could cut steel, and blue eyes that could only be described as "piercing"– Mary's right, he _is_ hot, so she might as well go along with it.

"I noticed you," she says, with a shrug, like admitting this is no big deal.

"I noticed you noticing me," he counters, sitting his bottle of beer on the granite counter, the clink of the glass working as a natural punctuation to his statement.

"Cute," she says.

"So are you."

He saunters over to her and gently takes the handtowel she's been holding in her hands, all this time, without ever noticing, and sets it on the granite countertop.

Rid of the barrier, he starts rolling his thumb over her delicate knuckles, her hand small and pale in his.

"Do you usually kiss girls at parties?"

"No," she says, not too shy to break his gaze, he notices, as most girls would be at such a bold inquiry, "do you?"

"Mmhmm" he says, pulling her into an embrace and doing just that.

He's not a bad kisser, she thinks. There's a swooping feeling in her stomach but it's more about the fact that she's kissing someone than anything like butterflies. She got the same feeling when kissing Lizzy earlier.

Kissing two people in one night–definitely a change of pace for her, considering that before today she'd kissed two people within two years.

Brandon lifts her, with amazing ease (she's slender, but she's not nonexistent) onto the edge of the kitchen sink. He maneuvers his way in between her legs. She's wearing perhaps the most conservative outfit at this party: a green turtleneck and a long black skirt that reaches her ankles, which he's promptly hiked up to her waist.

"What," she asks slowly as he nuzzles behind her ear, "are you doing?"

"What," he says, matching her even, exaggerated tone as he starts to unbuckle his belt, "does it look like I'm doing?"

Anne lets out a huff of indignation, pulls her skirt back down, and jumps off the counter.

"No, you're not. Well," she adds, eyeing the bulge in his jeans, "maybe _you_ are, but I'm not."

"What's the matter? You want to go back to my place instead? Sorry if I offended you–I just figured you were wild, what with that display earlier. We can have some privacy if you want. I don't even mind."

"What an honor. But pass," she says.

"What? Why?" He asks, fumbling with his belt loops.

"Do you even know my name?"

"I–I–do you even know mine?" he asks.

"Brandon."

"Oh. well, that's only my last name," he says, crossing his arms, "so…"

"So…more than you know of me."

Anne, deciding she's done for the night, opens the fridge– she knows Mary keeps bottles of water in here.

"Whatever. Forget you," he scoffs, then, under his breath, "fucking tease."

"What was that?" she demands, blocking the doorway.

"I called you," he says, levelly, "a tease. A girl that tries to attract attention to herself, pretends she likes that attention, and then rejects it."

"I–"

"You could have just told me to fuck off when I came in here. Instead you wanted to play games, but didn't want to follow through."

"I never–"

"It's not like you're even that hot," he says nastily, "I was the one doing you a favor."

Brandon puts his hands up in a mocking don't-shoot gesture, and shoves past her, back out into the living room.

Reeling from the encounter, tears pricking at her eyes, and most definitely wanting to avoid the crowd, Anne tries to find the nearest exit. There's a door on the side of the kitchen, so she goes for that, relieved to see it leads to an porch outside.

She sits against the railing, pulling her knees up to her chest. She tries to take deep breaths but chokes on them, so she just gives in and let's herself cry instead.

The sound of footsteps approach, so Anne puts her head on her knees.

"Are you ok?"

 _Great, another guy,_ she thinks, _why are there so many of them at this school?_

"Perfect," she says, "thanks."

"Why are you crying?"

She looks up at him. He's tall, with longish brown hair that curls around his ears, kind brown eyes almost hidden by his bangs. He's wearing a leather jacket that matches his eyes almost exactly, though he probably doesn't know that. Guys never notice things like that.

"I'm not," she insists, sniffling.

He sits down next to her and passes her a tissue.

"For your non-tears," he explains.

"Thanks."

"Mind if I join you?"

She shrugs, looking down at her lap.

"You kind of just did."

"I just– it's just some guy," she says, finally answering his question, "it's stupid, I only just met him tonight."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing too bad just…reacted poorly when I told him I wouldn't hook up with him tonight."

"What made him think that you would?"

"We kissed."

"That's a bit of a leap on his part."

"That's what I thought. But apparently not."

"What did he do?"

She really, really doesn't want to talk, or think about it, anymore.

"Doesn't matter."

"That bad, huh?"

"It's– I'm fine."

"I'll kill him for you."

"Oh my God! No, not that bad," she laughs.

"I don't mind. I hate it when guys make girls cry."

"Your kill count must be pretty high, then," she quips.

"I'm Henry, by the way."

"You're–you're the guy that hooked up with my sister? Already? That was fast–"

"What? No. Who's–"

"All I know is that it was with someone named Henry. I didn't really get a good look at him? So I assumed…"

"No, ah– if I had to hazard a guess the guy on campus who's hooked up with most– ah, other people's sisters– is Henry Tudor."

"Oh yeah, that's who she said he was."

"I'm Henry Percy. My friends call me Harry, though…if that makes it easier for you to distinguish between me and the guy that _probably_ hooked up with your sister, given his rep."

"He's well known then? Mary– my sister– was gravely offended when I didn't know who he was."

"He's well known as the campus lothario," he confirms, "also as the son of Henry Tudor the 1st."

"Who's that?"

"Founder and CEO of Red Dragon? Only the largest smartphone conglomerate in the world?"

Anne shakes her head.

"I'm sure you have one of their– here," he says, pointing to the phone in the see-through wallet next to her, "yeah, see? I can even tell from the logo on the back, that's a Red Dragon phone. Tudor conceptualized that, he revolutionized– sorry," he says sheepishly, noting her glazed expression, "business major."

"It's alright. Oh," she exclaims, snapping her fingers, "are you…in Boheme's Macroeconomics?"

"Yeah, are you?"

She nods.

"I must not have noticed you. Seems impossible, though."

Anne smiles.

"Well, I sit in the back," she says coyly.

"How did you get the class, if you don't mind me asking? I'm a junior and I had to be waitlisted."

"I could be a junior," Anne insists.

"Are you?"

"No. I took the prereq's in high school– we had a program called Running Start, where you could take community college classes for credit. And I wrote an essay explaining why I wanted to take the class and I sent it to Boheme when I was applying for enrollment."

"I see. And what name would that be under?"

"Pardon?" she asks, brow furrowed.

"I introduced myself. You still haven't," he teases.

"Oh, sorry. Anne Boleyn."

The shake hands. He holds hers…longer than strictly necessary for a handshake; she's pretty sure of that.

"I better get going," she says, the first to withdraw her hand.

"Me too– promised my friends I'd meet them here."

"I'll see you Tuesday," she says, getting up from the porch.

He gets up too, reeling a bit, legs pricking with pins and needles, "You– you will?"

"Yes. In Macro," she clarifies, bemused.

"Oh. Right."

"Thank you for making sure I was ok. Most people would've just walked past me."

"Any time."

–-

 **August 27, 2016, Saturday, 9:03 AM**

"Hey," Henry asks, tying his shoes, legs hanging off the side of his bed, "you have any luck last night?"

"Was starting to look that way," Brandon says, flicking through Instagram on his phone, "but didn't pan out."

"Her choice or yours?"

"Hers," he says shortly, "but it's fine. Shouldn't have settled that early in the night, she wasn't _that_ great looking."

"You were a gentleman about it, I hope?"

"I didn't rape her, if that's what you're asking," he scoffs.

Henry stops his movements and glares at his friend, his face a quiet storm brewing.

"Did you fulfill the bare minimum requirements of human decency? No, that's not what I'm asking," he snaps, "nor is it being a gentleman to do so."

"What's your–"

"I mean: did you accept rejection graciously? Tell her no worries, you'd see her around."

"Ah…no, not quite."

"What did you say?" Henry asks, rubbing his temples like he can't believe he's having this conversation.

"May have called her a tease," he admits sheepishly.

"Brandon!" he exclaims, taking his friend by the shoulders, "that is unacceptable. I'm not going to let my reputation be ruined by my friend being an asshole."

Henry pats Brandon on the shoulder, a fatherly gesture. He takes a seat on his bed and lights a cigarette (strictly prohibited in dorms, of course, but he started in boarding school and he's not about to stop now).

"Tell me what happened."

"She was–staring at me, watching me while kissing another girl–"

"Really? Who?" he asks, grinning, more intrigued than before.

"Lizzy Blount."

"Huh," he says, eyes gleaming with possibilities, "uh, and?"

"They stopped, she left. I followed her–"

"First mistake."

"What?"

"I don't follow girls. I don't approach girls. If I can help it, I don't even talk to girls. They follow me, they approach me, they talk to me, first. Those are the rules I go by. It's much easier that way, and it makes rejection less likely."

"How do you get them to follow you?"

Henry smirks and points to his face.

"But besides that– I wink and leave."

"You…?"

"Make eye contact. Wink. And then. Leave," he snaps his fingers, "works like a charm."

"And you do this anywhere?"

"Anywhere. Classes, parties, Starbucks, bars. It's what I did last night."

A knock sounds on the door.

"Come in," Henry calls, putting his cigarette out on an ash tray.

Brandon recognizes her from last night. When her back is to them, he mouths, " _That's_ what you did last night."

Henry shushes him silently, though his playful expression conveys he's not truly offended.

"I got us coffee," the girl says, freezing in her steps when she sees Brandon.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know…you were here, or I would've gotten you one. I only had five bucks on me anyway, but…"

"Thanks, babe," Henry says, taking a paper cup from her and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Here," he says, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and handing it to her.

"Oh, no, really, it's fine–"

"I insist," he says with a smile.

She takes it.

"Thanks. I have to get going–"

"No, come here," Henry pulls her down for a kiss.

Brandon, feeling awkward being in the same room as them, walks over to their open window. Looking down at the courtyard, he sees his failed conquest, laughing and walking with another girl– Anna? He thinks he's seen her before in Chem class.

She seems fine to him. She can't have been that bothered by what he said, maybe Henry made too big a deal about it.

Maybe he can apologize and still have a chance with her–

A guy with long hair waves and the two girls stop to talk to him. Anna makes herself scarce.

He may recognize the guy– Tom, yeah, he remembers him as the lead singer of a band that played covers at a lot of campus parties last year.

They talk for a beat, then continue down the path together.

 _So much for that._

"I really have to go," she says, giggling, "but I'll see you later?"

"Of course. Bye, Mary."

"Nice to meet you," she calls out to Brandon, though neither of them introduced themselves.

"Sure, same to you."

"Nicely done," he says as soon as she leaves, "sure you're not giving her the wrong idea, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Letting her stay over, 'babe', 'of course', kissing…"

"I kiss," he says, affronted, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Only when you're about to fuck," he says bluntly, "otherwise that's girlfriend stuff. Or so you've said."

"Nah, she's cool. She said she's not looking for anything serious, and y'know, I actually believe her?" he says, as if he's even surprised at himself.

"A lot of girls lie about that, but I don't think she is."

"Still…best to be careful, no?"

"True. Let's get ready, shall we? Lacrosse is in…" he checks his watch, "shit, fifteen minutes."

—-

 **From: 323-651-81**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent: August 27th, 2016, Saturday, 11:00 AM**

Tom Wyatt wants to be friends on Facebook. You have 1 mutual friend in common. Reply "1" to confirm or go to **link**

 **From: 323-651-80**

 **To: Thomas Wyatt**

Anne Boleyn has accepted your friend request. Reply to send her a message or visit her timeline at **link**

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent: August 27, 2016, Saturday, 1:01 PM**

so…you 2 are…friends?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Stop stalking my Facebook and go study.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Harsh much? I had a great night btw, thanks for asking

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

You're welcome! For distracting his friend, who's a DICK, btw.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Oh no, I'm sorry! I owe you one for sure. Hope he wasn't 2 bad…he was nice to me when we met this morning! A little standoffish, maybe. R u ok?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

I'm fine. Actually, I kind of…met someone last night?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

OMG, who?!

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Henry Percy

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Just looked him up on Fbook! Soo cute!  
OMG wait– did we both hook up with Henry's last night? That would be wild!

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

I KNOW. No…you know I don't hook up.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Had to ask!

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Anyway…what are you up to today?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Had to go finish making copies of Bio textbook from library…they are so strict here. It's due not only by date but time or there's a late fee, and it was due at 10 AM! So stupid.

And now I actually AM going to study, missy.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Same, I have a presentation due Monday. Wanna come over and we can study together?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Yes! And we can talk more about last night.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

See you soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**From: Anne Boleyn  
To: Anna Seville  
Sent August 29, 2016, Monday, 3:00 PM**

Can I friend request him yet? It's been 2 days!

 **From: Anna**

No! Be cool

 **From: Anne**

Ugggh! Fine

 **From: Anna**

You'll see him tomorrow. Just get there early so there's an open seat next to you.

 **From: Anne**

You're a genius!

 **From: Anna**

I know.

—

 **From: 323-421-342  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent September 2, 2016, Friday, 11:00 AM**

Henry Percy wants to be friends on Facebook. You have 1 friend in common.

Reply "1" to confirm.

—

 **From: Anna Seville  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent September 3, 2016, 1:06 PM**

That song was totally about you

 **From: Anne**

What?

 **From: Anna**

Tom's? At the party last night? "Hair like night/eyes like oceans?"

 **From: Anne**

My eyes are brown.

 **From: Anna**

He was talking about depth, not color.

 **From: Anne**

Mmm. And he told you this?

 **From: Anna**

It was OBVIOUS.

 **From: Anne**

You flatter me.

 **From: Anna**

He was staring at you!

 **From: Anne**

He has a gf.

 **From: Anna**

Who's not here…

 **From: Anne**

Anna!

 **From: Anna**

What? He's hot.

 **Anne:**

I can't. There's just– too much history there.

—

 **From: 602-291-3498  
To: Mary Boleyn  
Sent September 9, 2016, Friday, 9:30 PM**

You looked cute in your uniform

 **From: Mary**

Who's this?

 **From: 602-291-3498**

Guess

 **From: Mary**

…Henry?

 **From: 602-291-3498**

Mmhmm

"Siri, save 602-291-3498 in contacts as Henry Tudor."

 **From: Mary**

I had dance team rehearsal yesterday…but I didn't see you?

 **From: Henry**

No. My friend Will is sports photographer for school newspaper. Showed me his photos, yours as "the hottest girl he'd ever seen"

 **From: Mary**

Aw!

 **From: Henry**

And I got to say, "I know her".

 **From: Mary**

How did you get my number?

 **Henry:**

Facebook

 **Mary:**

Creep!

Henry:

You love it ;)

 **Mary:**

Psssh…

 **Henry:**

Free tonight?

 **Mary:**

No…sorority duties. :(

 **Henry:**

Bummer. Later?

 **Mary:**

Sure!

—

 **From: Francis Valois  
To: Mary Boleyn  
Sent September 17, 2016, Saturday, 10:20 PM**

Are you dating Henry Tudor?

 **From: Mary**

Hello to you, too

 **From: Francis**

Don't be cute.

 **From: Mary**

Don't be rude!

 **From: Francis**

Just answer the question.

 **From: Mary**

Y do you care?

 **From: Francis**

Not into sharing.

 **From: Mary**

I'm not a fucking dessert!

 **From: Francis**

You're dating him.

 **Mary:**

I'm not. We've hooked up a few times

 **Francis:**

Wow.

 **Mary:**

Never said we were exclusive…and you've fucked three girls on the dance team this month alone! So don't even.

 **Franics:**

I'd be nicer to me if I were you.

 **Mary:**

What is that supposed to mean?

Read: 11:01 PM

 **From: Mary  
To: Francis  
Sent September 17, 2016, Saturday, 11:59 PM**

Francis?

 **From: Mary  
Sent September 18, 2016, Sunday, 12:30 AM**

Fine. We are NEVER hooking up again.

 **From: Mary  
Sent 1:00 AM**

You're a dick.

—

 **From: Mary Boleyn  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent September 18, 2016, Sunday, 3:00 AM**

I am so done with men.

 **From: Anne Boleyn  
Sent 3:02 AM**

What happened?

 **From: Mary**

Francis happened.

 **From: Anne**

I told you…Anna said her friend dated him last year and that he was super jealous and possessive.

 **From: Mary**

Weren't even dating tho…

 **From: Anne**

What was wrong with Henry?

 **Mary:**

Nothing. Just fizzled out. Mutual.

 **Anne:**

Really?

 **From: Mary Boleyn  
Sent 3:15 AM**

Yes!

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **Sent 3:17 AM**

No…

 **Anne:**

What then?

 **Mary:**

Honestly…he always wanted to go down on me.

 **Anne:**

?

 **Mary:**

Whatever! I'm not super into that.

 **Anne:**

?!

 **Mary:**

I prefer giving over receiving

 **Anne:**

?!

 **Mary:**

Shut up!

 **Anne:**

?!

 **Mary:**

ANYway….I was running out of excuses to put him off.  
First time we hooked up I lied and said I was on my period.  
Second time said I had just gotten a wax and it was too sensitive down there.  
Third time said I had a stomachache and wasn't in the mood, he was actually rlly sweet, said I could just come over to watch a movie and we didn't have to do anything, so did that.

 **Anne:**

Wow.

 **Mary:**

So then I just stopped texting him and he stopped texting me.

 **Anne:**

Is it awkward? Do you have any classes together?

 **Mary:**

Just French I.  
It's not too weird, we still say hi and stuff. He grabbed a soda for me in the caf the other day, we wave at each other at the gym…

 **Anne:**

V mature of you two.

 **Mary:**

Right? V different for me.

 **Anne:**

Francis was…immature, I'm guessing?

 **Mary:**

Very.  
Fuck him.

 **Anne:**

Or…don't.

 **Mary:**

ha, ha, ha.

 **Anne:**

I'm hilarious- you don't have to tell me.

—

 **From: 326-651-78  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent September 19, 2016, Monday, 8:30 AM**

Henry Percy has written on your timeline

"Happy birthday, cutie"  
Reply with your comment or "like"

—

 **From: Anna Seville  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent September 24th, 2016, Saturday, 6:00 PM**

Where r u?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

In the library, why? What's up?

 **From: Anna**

There are some rumors going around about Mary.

 **From: Anne**

What rumors?

 **From: Anna**

People are saying that she's a prostitute? To pay for college?

 **From: Anne**

What the hell?

 **From: Anna**

They're calling her "Beta Whore". Francis is probably behind it.

 **From: Anne**

Are you sure?

 **From: Anna**

All signs point to it. This guy was saying he "had it on good authority" that one of his frat brothers paid her because she'd "do stuff nice girls wouldn't". He's in the same frat as Francis. Last year he started a rumor that my friend had an STD after she broke up with him.

 **From: Anne**

Thank you for telling me.

—

 **September 24, 2016, Saturday, 6:15 PM**

"Siri, call Katherine Aragon."

"Ok, well, don't tell me to call you if you're just going to let it go to voicemail–"

"Excuse me! Excuse me!"

"NO RUNNING!"

"What the…ok, this girl just shot out of the library like a bat out of hell…that was weird…anyway…I have a test Monday so I have to–"

"Young man, there's no phone calls allowed in the library, I'm–"

"Do you know who I am?"

"Excuse–"

"My father practically built this library. Watch your tone."

" _Sir_ –"

"Gottagoloveyoubye."

—

 **From: Charles Brandon  
To: Henry Tudor  
September 24, Saturday, 6:32 PM**

Dude, where are you?

 **From: Henry**

Library. French is kicking my ass. What's up?

 **From: Brandon**

You know Francis Valois?

 **From: Henry**

Hate that asshole. Y?

 **From: Brandon**

I just saw this girl run up to him at the Victor Hugo fountain and I shit you not, she just starts screaming at him! She said he was "lucky Mary even gave you the time of day", called him some choice words….

 **From: Henry**

Mary…Boleyn?

 **From: Brandon**

Yeah, probably. Don't know any other Marys.

 **From: Henry**

That's why she stopped texting me…

 **From: Brandon**

Guess so. Anyway, she just starts whaling on him!

 **From: Henry**

That's hilarious.

 **From: Brandon**

Then Tom Wyatt and Henry Percy are there, trying to get her to calm down, trying to hold her back but she's not having it. She's all "LET ME GO" and she pushes Valois, who's like twice her size, into the fountain!

 **From: Henry**

Sounds amazing. Wish I had been there.

 **From: Brandon**

Yeah. Don't fuck with the Boleyn girls, I guess.

 **From: Henry**

Girls?

 **From: Brandon**

Oh yeah that's the other thing…the girl that pushed him is the one that was a bitch to me at that Beta Thau party.

 **From: Henry**

You'll have to be more specific.

 **From: Brandon**

Dick. The one that was kissing Lizzy Blount?

 **From: Henry**

Oh, yeah?

 **From: Brandon**

Yeah, turns out she's Mary's sister. The other Boleyn girl.


	3. Chapter 3

**From: Anne Boleyn  
To: Henry Percy  
Sent October 3, 2016, Monday, 6:19 PM**

Are you going to the Virtue Masquerade?

 **From: Henry Percy  
To: Anne Boleyn**

Nah, seems like a bit of work. And I like to pick my own costume.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Oh.

 **From: Henry Percy**

Are you?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

I promised Mary I'd go…and I already auditioned for a principal role in the pageant.

 **From: Henry Percy**

Sorry, wish I'd known. I already agreed to a friend's party.

—

 **From: Mary Boleyn  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent October 4, 2016, Tuesday, 7:01 PM**

Jen just told me you're playing Perseverance! Yay!

 **From: Anne**

Ok.

 **From: Mary**

What's wrong?

 **From: Anne**

Henry's not going.

 **From: Mary**

I'm sorry, sweetie. We'll send him pictures.

—

 **October 5 2016, Wednesday 5:00 PM**

"This envelope was outside our door," Brandon calls out, throwing his bag on the floor and throwing the letter at Henry.

"To: Henry Tudor and Charles Brandon," Henry reads aloud, "From: The Sororities of Whitehall University."

"Interesting."

"A paper letter? How 90s," Henry says, ripping the envelope and lifting out the parchment inside.

"You are cordially invited to the Virtues' Masquerade, a night of revels, magic, and dancing…blah blah….attendance is not taken lightly. All attendees will need to send their measurements to email address blah blah blah…be available for costume and mask fittings and if selected, will need to take mandatory ballroom dancing lessons to learn the introductory routine…"

"Christ!" Brandon says, tugging his shoes off as he sits on the floor, "I'm not doing that shit."

"It's on Halloween," he says, "there's a number to RSVP to…'PS: the ratio of genders has already been decided for this event, 10:1 girls to boys."

"Sounds like a lot of work," Brandon gripes.

"Brandon, were you even listening? 10 to 1! Girls to guys!"

"I don't know…"

"That's a golden ratio. It's worth it," Henry declares, typing the phone number on the invitation in on his phone, "I'm going, even if you're not."

"Well if you're going I'm going."

"'Course you are."

—

 **From: Henry Tudor** **  
To: Charles Brandon  
Sent October 10, 2016, Monday, 2:30 PM**

Hey, can you do me a favor?

 **From: Brandon**

Probably, what is it?

 **From: Henry**

Pick my little sister up from the airport tomorrow morning?  
Have a makeup exam.  
You can use the promo credit for Uber, I'll send it to you.

 **From: Brandon**

You trust me with your sister?

 **From: Henry**

Yes. Why shouldn't I?

 **From: Brandon**

You know me…;-)

 **From: Henry**

Gross. She's my _sister_.  
She's 17.

 **From: Brandon**

Ok, my bad.

 **From: Henry**

Do I need to get someone else to do it?

 **From: Brandon**

No, it was just a joke.

 **From: Henry**

Don't joke about my sister.

 **From: Brandon**

Ok, sorry.

—

 **From: Margaret Tudor  
To: Henry Tudor  
Sent October 11, 2016, Tuesday, 7:00 AM**

you couldn't come yourself? rlly?

 **From: Henry Tudor  
To: Margaret Tudor  
Sent 9:12 AM**

I told you, I had a makeup exam.

 **From: Margaret**

before 9 am? you had a girl in your bed and you roped your schmuck of a friend into doing the errand for you.

 **From: Henry**

No, actually, haven't had one in a month.  
Don't be cross.

 **From: Margaret**

that'll make katherine happy…

 **From: Henry**

How is the hotel?

 **From: Margaret**

fine. your friend is boring :p

 **From: Henry**

I enrolled you in a masquerade for Halloween. Your 1st dance lesson is tomorrow.

 **From: Margaret**

dance lessons?  
i'm a debutante. i've been in ballet since the cradle. don't need dance lessons.

 **From: Henry**

Don't be a brat. It's a specific routine.  
You need to send measurements for the costume, too.

 **From: Margaret**

i don't want to go to a fucking masque.

 **From: Henry**

Too bad.  
Dad had to shell out a lot of money to get you a role in the pageant.

 **From: Margaret**

you are the literal worst.

 **From: Henry**

Yell at dad, not me. Said you needed 'structure'. Doesn't want you 'gallivanting around Los Angeles'.

 **From: Margaret**

he just wants you to watch me.

 **From: Henry**

That too.  
You think I _want_ to have watch my little sister on Halloween?

 **From: Margaret**

so don't.

 **From: Henry**

It's cute that you think I have a choice in the matter.

 **From: Margaret**

you got in trouble at boarding school all the time…no one was sent to watch you.

 **From: Henry**

It's different for girls.

 **From: Margaret**

that's bullshit.

 **From: Henry**

I never did a naked dare at school, tho. Don't know what you were thinking.

 **From: Margaret**

whatever.  
is dad's card charged to the room?

 **From: Henry**

Assume so. Why?

 **From: Margaret**

getting everything from room service.

—

 **From: Katherine Aragon  
To: Henry Tudor  
October 15, 2016, Saturday, 11:45 AM**

Is it true you haven't slept with anyone in a month?

 **From: Henry**

Always a pleasure.

 **From: Katherine**

Is it true?

 **From: Henry**

Margaret?

 **From: Katherine**

Yes.

 **From: Henry**

Yes, it's true.

 **From: Katherine**

Oh, Henry!

 **From: Henry**

It doesn't mean anything. I've been busy, that's all.

 **From: Katherine**

I know you are capable of being faithful to me.

 **From: Henry**

This doesn't change anything. I've always told you we would been monogamous when we're married.

 **From: Katherine**

Yes, I know.

 **From: Henry**

I love you.

 **From: Katherine**

I love you, too. I miss you.

 **From: Henry**

Miss you, too.

—

 **From: Jennifer Parker  
To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent October 16, 2016, Sunday, 1:08 PM**

Are you really 34-24-34?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Yes, why?

 **From: Jennifer Parker**

I hate you.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

…thanks?

—

 **From: Margaret Tudor  
To: Henry Tudor Sr.  
Sent October 20, 2016, Thursday, 9:23 PM**

I want to go shopping.

 **From: Henry Sr.**

After the stunt you pulled? Absolutely not.

 **From: Margaret**

I would rather walk around naked than wear last season's clothes.

 **From: Henry Sr.**

No. Credit cards.

 **From: Margaret**

Naked it is, then. Don't think I'm bluffing–being naked outside is the reason I got expelled, remember?

—

 **To: Margarettudor  
From: ****  
Sent October 20, 2016, Thursday, 9:53 PM**

Ms. Tudor,

A $10,000 deposit has posted to your account. Please allow 3-5 business days to process any transfers.

Thank you for choosing !

—

 **From: Anne Boleyn  
To: Mary Boleyn  
Sent October 25, 2016, Tuesday, 1:04 PM**

…why did I just see Lizzy run by with a condom wrapper in her hair?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Oh. That.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

?

 **From: Mary**

Guys have started throwing them at her.

 **From: Anne**

That's disgusting. Why?

 **From: Mary**

She made the mistake of sleeping over at Alpha Delta…the frat house where they throw stuff at girls going down the stairs from the bedrooms? They yell 'go to church' at them  
and post videos of it online. It's called the "walk of shame series".

 **From: Anne**

WTF!

 **From: Mary**

Yeah, it's fucked up.

 **From: Anne**

Rampant misogyny.  
And bullying– they put this garbage online?

 **From: Mary**

Yeah.

 **From: Anne**

Then they're stupid to boot– they've basically posted evidence against themselves for anyone to find.

 **From: Mary**

She's just gained a reputation for sleeping around in general, I think that's part of it too.

 **From: Anne**

So?

 **From: Mary**

I'm not defending it!

 **From: Anne**

I don't see anyone throwing condoms at Charles Brandon. Or Henry Tudor.  
Or Tom! He has his fair share of groupies.

 **From: Mary**

You're not wrong…

 **From: Anne**

Damn right I'm not wrong.

—

 **From: anonymous  
To: admin  
Subject: URGENT– bullying and hazing videos  
Sent October 26, 2015, Tuesday, 11:28 PM**

Thought you may want to know what your "prestigious" fraternity has been up to.

 **link**

—

 **October 26, 2016, Wednesday, 11:56 AM**

"Attention, please. Francis Valois, Peter Hastings, Richard Buckingham, and Brett Williamson– your presence is required in the dean's office. ASAP."

—

 **From: Mary Boleyn  
To: Anne Boleyn  
Sent October 26, 2016, Wednesday, 11:59 AM**

Just heard the intercom announcement– was that you?

 **From: Anne Boleyn  
To: Mary Boleyn**

O:-)

 **From: Mary**

You're a badass- you know that, right?

 **From: Anne**

;-)


	4. Chapter 4

**October 31, 2016, Monday, Halloween, 10:33 PM**

Anne doesn't really care about her starring role. Henry's not even here to see how lovely she looks, she thinks bitterly as she looks at her reflection in the floor length mirror, since he RSVPed to some other party.

She spent three hours in the hair and makeup chair, so it's only right that she looks amazing– her long, black locks pinned magnificently at the nape of her neck, a lace crown pinned to the top of her head. Her cheeks are iridescent with shimmer, her cheekbones, highlighted by a professional "contour specializing makeup artist", are absolutely striking.

They even put the shimmer on her collar bones, making them stand out even more than usual on her small frame. The makeup artist had asked, quite politely, if it would be alright if she added some shimmer to her cleavage as well– insisting she could put it on herself if it made her uncomfortable, and Anne had agreed to be shimmered. So _that_ was also enhanced.

The white and gold mask they tied around her head make her dark eyes look mysterious.

She could be unrecognizable, she muses to herself, getting closer to the mirror to check her lip gloss. If someone didn't know her very well, they wouldn't know her at all in this gown, this mask.

As she smoothes her hands over the cinched waist, turning side by side in the mirror to make sure the ribbons running up and down her hips are still tied, that the gauzy straps are still firmly on her shoulders, she thinks  
that she could be anybody tonight. Absolutely anybody at all.

It's a comforting thought.

—

 **October 31, 2016, Halloween, 11:27 PM**

The ballroom is pitch black, save for the projector on stage; a backdrop that imitates falling snow.

Jen Parker, by her own persistence or some act of God (Anne assumes), somehow managed to convince the Intercontinental York Hotel to look the other way on the fire code, as the stage and the edges of the ballroom are decorated with real lit candles on pedestals.

A voice booms over the speakers:

"Ladies and Gentlemen! The time has come…for the 21st Century Fairy Tale Virtues' Masquerade!"

The crowd cheers.

Anne turns around within the "castle" she and the other principal ladies are inside, peeking through the keyhole shaped window built high on one of the "towers".

The "castle" was built by professional set designers over the course of October. It's set on the wall, all the way up to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Stairs descend down the far left and far right towers.

Jen Parker's father is an Oscar-winning movie director and had the connections to set everything up.

As part of the payment for the masquerade, all players and guests have signed waivers agreeing to be filmed with the understanding that any footage may be used in the movie "21st Century Fairy Tale".

"This must have cost a fortune," Anne whispers to Mary, also sitting perched behind the top of one of the towers.

"Sssh! They're about to start."

Mary is playing the role of Kindness, Anne is Perseverance. Jen Parker in Constance. Margaret Tudor, younger sister of Henry Tudor, is playing Beauty (Jen balked at the idea of a high school girl in a starring role but her father couldn't refuse the sum Henry Tudor Sr. paid to have her cast). Bounty is played by Lizzy Blount. Mercy and Pity are played by the Beta Tau Twins, Greer and Jessa.

No one knows their identities, not even the eight men cast as virtuous gentlemen. Nor do the virtuous ladies know theirs.

The only person on stage is an ASL translator, the spotlight on her as the speech continues.

"On this Hallow's Eve, eight Virtuous Ladies have been captured by Evil Spirits!"

"It's showtime," Jen whispers, making one final adjustment to her lace crown and smiling.

Jen stands up and the spotlight finds her.

"The ladies– Constance!"

"Beauty!"

The spotlight follows Margaret, standing haughtily, hands on her hips.

"Honor! Kindness! Bounty! Mercy! Pity!"

"And…Perseverance!"

Anne is standing, beaming by the time the spotlight lands on her. Then she worries– perhaps she shouldn't be smiling, given that she's been taken prisoner? But no, looking around, she can see that the rest of the ladies are doing the same.

"The Evil Spirits!"

The spotlight falls to the floor, where the "Evil Spirits"– actors and dancers, both men and women, hired by the production company– bare their swords. Their prosthetics are ghastly: stitches running down their faces and necks, eyes made to look like zombies', fake blood splattered on their clavicles and collarbones and smeared in their hair.

"Only the Virtuous Gentlemen can save them!"

"Well, this isn't very feminist," Anne whispers from the corner of her mouth.

"Perseverance!" Jen hisses through a tight smile.

Anne nearly jumps out of her skin– Jen's far over, on the other side of the castle…she must have sonar bat-hearing.

"Shut up!" Jen whisper-shouts, smiling still.

Mary stifles a giggle. Anne nods remorsefully, embarrassed and slightly frightened by the older girl's intensity.

Eight men run out from behind the stage bearing shields. They are all don in Shakespearean clothes, black and gold, with gold crowns atop their heads and gold and black masks covering their faces.

The spotlight goes to each as their names are announced:

"Liberty!"

"Attendance!"

"Loyalty!"

"Pleasure!"

That jawline is Brandon, Anne recognizes it immediately. Anne grimaces. If she gets paired with him she's feigning some illness, she doesn't care what Jen does to her. Nothing in the world sounds less appealing than having to dance the three minutes and fifty four seconds of the rehearsed song with him.

"Gentleness! Nobleness! Youth! And…Amorous!"

—

 **October 31, 2016, Halloween, 11:37 PM**

"Each gentleman can save only one lady!"

A woman dressed as a fairy dances out from behind the stage, holding two handfuls of scrolls, which she hands out to the Gentlemen, one by one.

"You have this moment to read the name of your lady, chosen!–by destiny."

"Again, the ladies are: Constance! Beauty! Honor! Kindness! Bounty! Mercy! Pity! And Perseverance!"

The spotlight lands on "Perseverance", the name on Henry's paper.  
He can't make out much from this far away, but she seems pretty enough. They're all dressed in the same white gowns, the same masks and lace crowns.

"On the count of three, the rescue begins!"

"1…2…3!"

Confetti, fake snow and glitter fall from the ceiling, landing on the Gentlemen as they make a mad dash through the fray of Evil Spirits.

Henry runs past them, the fastest, runs up the stairs that loop around the side of the castle, competitive as always. Perseverance runs towards him to the top of the stairs.

"Perseverance!" someone hisses, "you're supposed to wait for _him_ to rescue _you_!"

Perseverance laughs, Henry grabs her hand, grinning from ear to ear at his triumph–

And everything is different.

Fractured.

It's as if she is a star and everything surrounding her has faded to night.

He cannot hear the violins that were playing before, cannot hear the clamor of the Evil Spirits below, he cannot hear a goddamn thing.

He cannot see a goddamn thing.

But her.

 _Her._

The glitter, confetti, and "snow" drifts down, soft and slow as actual snow. Each second that passes feels like a minute.

She is a study in dualities: the inky hair and milky skin, her eyes– _God, those eyes!_ – sparkling with mischief, lock into his, fiercely, as if she could peer into the depths of his soul with one glance. They are startling against the white mask, dark brown with flecks of gold, highlighted by the gold in the mask as well.

She is a book he wants to keep reading, and he is utterly, hopelessly lost in her.

She seems familiar, yet also seems like a complete stranger. He's not sure which is true, maybe the truth lies somewhere in between.

She laughs, a wondrous, musical sound, and the music plays again; the people surrounding them move faster than before. Henry snaps back into reality and finds his voice, unearths his charm.

"Perseverance," he says, kissing her hand, "I have saved you."

"Amorous," she answers with a graceful curtsey, scanning the ground below.

"Forgive me, but you haven't _quite_ saved me yet."

"Do you trust me?" he asks, exultant.

"I–"

"Do I look strong? To you?"

"I–" she laughs, blushing, taking in his muscular forearms, "yes and–yes!"

Henry scoops her up in his arms, like a husband walking his bride over the threshold, and rushes down the stairs with her, holding his shield out and pushing through the Evil Spirits. She is laughing, almost screaming, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs thrown over his arms. He can feel her cold nose pressed behind his ear– it's a sensation he doesn't mind.

"I'm going to let you down now," he warns, depositing her onto the dance floor once they've run past the Spirits, to the cheers of the crowd.

A fanfare sounds and the loudspeaker announces:

"First pair to the dance floor: Amorous and Perseverance!"

The crowd applauds, their masks and gowns glittering in the distance.

"Lady and Gentleman, take your places!"

Perseverance takes her place on one line, Henry takes his place on the opposite–they had rehearsals in this ballroom, and both have their starting positions memorized.

—

 **October 31, 2016, Halloween, 11:48 PM**

Violins play to Lorde's "Royals" as Anne looks across the dance floor at her chosen partner, who is smiling, flushed  
(and she's almost certain she is, as well), and out of breath from the exertion of carrying her, running with her in his arms, all the while fighting off their playactor "enemies".

The "fairy" runs in between them, scattering rose petals as she does so.

"Are you alright?" he shouts over the music, hands clasped behind his back.

"Perfect," she answers, somewhat breathlessly, "and yourself?"

"Perfect."

Other couples start to file in. Margaret Tudor stands next to her, shooting some contemptuous side-eye as she does so, then nods to Amorous.

They must know each other, Anne thinks.

She sees that Brandon is Margaret's partner. Anne steels herself to not even glance at him and looks straight ahead instead.

Every couple has now arrived.

The starting chords of the song she's been rehearsing to all month begin.  
It's the Vitamin String Quartet tribute to Taylor Swift's "Blank Space".

There's a woman onstage with a microphone, so Anne assumes Jen hired a singer, someone to cover the song as well– which makes sense, given that they learned their dance routine to the lyrics for easier memorization.

Each couple bows and curtsies to each other before beginning.

She steps forward, palm to palm with Amorous, as they turn–

 _saw you there and i thought/oh my god, look at that face/you look like my next mistake/love's a game, wanna play?_

Unfortunately at this measure she has to cross, and spin with Brandon as well.

 _new money suit and tie/i can read you like a magazine_

"Boleyn," he says shortly.

"Brandon," she says, matching his tone, "I see you finally learned my name."

 _ain't it funny/rumors fly/and i know you've heard about me_

"Well, you've made quite a name for yourself."

 _so hey, let's be friends/dying to see how this one ends_

At this line she has to return to her assigned partner. Anne dances around a standing Amorous in a circle, sweeping the skirt of her gown as she does so.

 _grab your passport and take my hand_

At which he grabs her hand and pulls her flush against his chest–

 _i can make the bad guys good for a weekend_

–and spins her out onto the floor,

 _so it's gonna be forever_

spins her back in,

 _or it's gonna go down in flames_

spins her out,

 _you can tell me when it's over_

spins her back in,

 _if the high was worth the pain_

lifts her in his arms,

 _got a long list of ex lovers/they'll tell you i'm insane_

spins her in his arms as she arches her back…

 _cause you know i love the players_

They withdraw, as rehearsed, and each dancer claps on the word "game":

 _and you love the game!"_

They come together again.

At "cause we're young and we're reckless", they more or less repeat the same moves, only in backwards order.

—

 **Halloween 2016, midnight**

"Who are you?" Henry asks, leading her down the length of the dance floor.

 _cherry lips, crystal skies/i could show you incredible things_

She dances another circle around him as she answers teasingly, "I'm Perseverance– remember?"

 _stolen kisses, pretty lies/you're the king baby, i'm your queen_

"And do you," he asks, leading her to the left, then the right, "persevere?"

 _find out what you want/be that girl for a month_

"Always," she says, curtsying low to the floor.

 _wait the worst is yet to come, oh no!_

Henry leans down, lifts her chin up gently. Her eyes meet his, matching his steady gaze, a challenge.

He lets go, then takes her hand to pull her up.

 _screaming, crying, perfect storms/i can make all the tables turn_

He dips her low, pulls her up to him again.

"And are you," she counters, "amorous?"

 _rose garden filled with thorns/keep you second guessing like "oh my god, who is she?!"_

At this point he holds her from behind, moving side to side. He keeps her there, a beat too long, to whisper to her, " _Always_."

 _i get drunk on jealousy/but you'll come back each time you leave_

They have to speed up their movements to catch up in the routine, and he has to pull her close at: _'cause darling i'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream_

The chorus repeats at "so it's gonna be forever", so they copy the routine from the same lines earlier.

Before the interlude begins, all the ladies return to their line, as do all the gentlemen.

 _boys only want love if it's torture_

The ladies run forward, halfway across the floor to their partners.

 _don't say i didn't/say i didn't warn ya_

Then they kneel and stretch their arms out, palms up, to their partners, in almost beseeching gesture.

 _boys only want love if it's torture_

They get up, then start to walk towards the gentlemen, snapping their fingers to the beat.

 _don't say i didn't/say i didn't warn ya!_

On this line they turn around and trust fall into their partners' arms, only to be carried and spun around again.

 _so it's gonna be forever…_

Now they repeat the chorus dance, all the way up until:

… _and you love the game!_

Everyone claps in unison, then continues–

 _but I've got a blank space, baby…_

The partners kneel together, holding hands:

 _and i'll write your name._


	5. Chapter 5

**author's note:** hi everyone! hope you're liking the story.

i haven't been able to read my reviews on this site. it says i have three reviews but when i click on them they're not there. a lovely person informed me that apparently all reviews from december 29-30 2015 have been eaten and that the website's had a problem with them ever since.

so, if you did leave one of the three reviews you can PM me. and if you want to leave one i might not be able to access it unless it's PM'ed. i also post this work to archiveofourown and am getting reviews there, and you can also post as a guest.

thanks!

 **October 31, 2016, Halloween**

The music stops and the guests cheer.

Anne is still kneeling, breathless from the intensity and speed of the dance, still holding hands with Amorous.

He's staring at her as if she is the only thing in the world not spinning. It makes her feel strangely untethered, like maybe she's not really here at all.

"I'm–"

—

"Henry!"

She is beaming, radiant, this mystery girl, Perseverance, but for some reason; though she is saying his name, she is no longer looking at him.

"Yes? How did–"

She runs past him, and some man– shorter than himself, he notes bitterly–catches her in his arms, just as Henry did not minutes before.

Of course she has a boyfriend. It would be stupid to assume otherwise; she's too beautiful to not.

"You came!"

"I wanted to surprise you."

"You did!"

"You look pretty…you looked amazing out there."

Henry can't bear to look anymore, so he searches the crowd for Margaret, attempting to distract himself.

"Brother?"

She finds him first. He smiles at her. She is seventeen and all limbs, and he hasn't seen her in over a year. It's like looking in a mirror– the same copper Tudor hair, the same stormy blue-grey eyes.

Perseverance and some other Henry are, unfortunately, still in his view, kissing.

"Margaret," he says, kissing her on the cheek, "you look lovely."

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"I'm– I don't feel well," he says, closing his eyes and pressing his hand to his forehead, as if he could will the sight away.

"Do you have a headache? I think I have some ibuprofen, I can go back to coat check to–"

"No, no, it's alright. Think I just need to rest– I'm sorry to leave, but– Brandon will take care of you. Is that alright?"

"That's fine. Henry–"

"Text me when you're back at the hotel? Please. So I don't worry."

"Ok, I will. Feel better!" she calls out, watching her older brother as he leaves the ballroom– he never leaves the party first, she thinks, but apparently there's a first time for everything.

—

Henry finishes changing into his regular clothes in the men's room and walks out into the hall, ready to call it a night, when he hears:

"Henry!"

He turns to see Lizzy, sitting on the floor in her expensive white gown. She waves at him with her left hand, holding a brownie in the other. There's chocolate smeared at the corner of her mouth.

"Hey, babe," he says, making a seat next to her on the floor and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

He takes off his crown and leans over.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Mmhmm," she says, sucking the crumbs off her fingers, "but they're expensive."

"Fair enough," he says, finding a $20 in the pocket of his jeans.

She takes it and gives him the rest of the brownie.

"Who were you?" he asks, resting his head against the wall and tucking a loose blonde curl behind her ear.

"Bounty. You?"

"Amorous."

"Amorous…like _amour_?"

"Yes, like that."

"Fitting, for you!" she exclaims, guileless as ever.

"I thought so."

She looks at him, titling her head sideways.

"Don't be sad," she says, patting his knee, "you're Henry Tudor! Life is good."

"Of course. Life is–wonderful," he says, schooling his face in a smile and taking her hand.

"Lizzy, will you–" his voice is shaky, this is least confident Lizzy has ever seen him, and she can't help but wonder why, "would you come home with me? Spend the night?"

"Of course," she says, a surety to her nod. And then, because it seems like he could use it, she kisses him.

He breaks it first and rests his head on her shoulder.

"Why are you so nice to me?" he asks.

"Because I like you, silly."

"Lizzy, I don't-"

"I don't want a boyfriend. I'm like you. I get bored easily," she admits with a shrug, "and it's ok. It's ok that sometimes you don't answer your phone. For a week I couldn't even _find_ my phone!"

He laughs at this.

"Honestly!"

She laces her fingers with his and they sit together, peacefully, listening to the sound of violins drifting down the hall from the ballroom.

—

 **From: lpointe  
To: henrytudor  
Sent November 1, 2016, Tuesday, 9:12 AM**

Mr. Tudor,

You are falling behind in my French course. You currently have a C- in my class.

I'm aware that you're one of Whitehall's star athletes. If your grade drops much below its current state, I'm afraid you won't be able to participate in our athletics department for much longer.

I am recommending you for our peer-tutoring program.

Don't be confused by my use of the word 'recommend'– it will be required that you attend to pass my class, at least until you reach a B- or above.

I'll email you a list of available dates and times for your first tutoring session ASAP.

Please let me know of any schedule conflicts you may have.

 **Professor Pointe  
626-320-8350  
Office hours: Monday-Thursday, 3-5 PM**

—

 _He's in a forest. Leaves fall down in waves._

 _She's there, in the same white dress, a green and gold cape draped over her shoulders, a gold circlet around her head._

" _You came," she says, voice wavering and distant._

" _Of course."_

" _I'm happy you're here."_

" _I feel like I know you," he says, cupping her face in his hands, "feel as if I have always known you."_

 _"In another life?"_

 _"Perhaps."_

 _She takes off her cloak and sweeps it over the ground, like a blanket. He watches her, mesmerized, as she lies down on her back, gazing up at him, her dark hair splayed around her._

 _"I've been waiting for so long, Henry…ever so long…"_

 _He joins her, arms pinned on either side of her, and showers her with kisses: on her jaw line, her shoulders, her neck, her clavicle, everywhere but her mouth._

 _"Don't–don't torture me!"_

 _"Don't torture_ _ **me**_ _," he counters._

 _He slides a hand up her skirt, slow as honey, tracing her leg in circles, upwards and upwards…finally, he cups the warm center of her. She gasps, a quick intake of breath, eyes beseeching._

 _"Better, sweetheart?" he asks._

 _She gives the slightest nod; his other hand is in her mouth, her teeth grazing his fingers._

 _"I still don't know your name," he whispers, urgent, "tell me your name."_

 _"Henry–"_

 _"No, that's MY name," he snarls, frustrated, "tell me yours, please– don't deny me this."_

 _"Henry, please–"_

 _What's your name," he begs of her, tears sliding down his face, falling onto hers, "what's your name? What's your name?"_

—

 **November 7th, 2016, Monday, 10:29 AM**

"Brandon."

"Huh?"

Henry rubs his eyes, his friend a blurry outline standing over him.

"Name's Brandon," he says, chuckling, "since you keep asking."

Henry shoots him a dirty look, snatching a shirt from his nightstand and throwing it over his head.

"Not funny."

"Ok, grumpy," Brandon says, picking up his keys and notebooks from his desk, "see you later."

"Where are you off to so early?" He asks irritably, already lighting his first cigarette of the day.

"It's 10:30, Henry."

"Shit!" he yells, running to the bathroom, "why didn't you wake me up?"

He slams the door behind him. Brandon hears water running.

"Well, excuse me for not having your schedule memorized!" he shouts, getting annoyed himself now.

Henry's been like this for days. At night he tosses, turns, and mumbles in his sleep. Last night Brandon threw a shoe at this side of the room and he didn't even startle. Henry may be the world's deepest sleeper, but Brandon's hardly getting any.

A nightmare while asleep, a nightmare while awake: irritable, quick to anger, and chain smoking like his life depends on every drag (when really the opposite is true).

—

 **November 8th, 2016, Tuesday, 8:04 AM**

Anne yawns over her cereal. She hasn't been sleeping well lately. The fluorescent lights of the caf feel like death against her skull, almost as if she's hungover, with none of the fun from the night before…only the consequences of the morning after.

"Careful," Mary warns, lifting a spoonful of oatmeal, "don't fall asleep in your cocoa puffs."

"I won't– doesn't sound too bad, though. I don't think I slept a wink last night."

"It's all the coffee you drink," Anna says, sipping her tea, "you gotta lay off that stuff."

"I don't think so," Mary says, genuine concern wrinkling her brow as she takes her younger sister's hand, "Anne always drinks a lot of coffee and she usually sleeps fine."

"It's true," Anne says, stirring her cereal around the bowl, "I started drinking coffee at 12– probably stunted my growth in the process. I'm totally acclimated. A cup of it to me is like what a cup of warm milk is to others."

"Oh!" Anna snaps her fingers, then leans in, conspiratorially, and whispers, "Japanese legend says that if you can't sleep at night, it's because you're awake in someone's dreams!"

"Really, Anna," Anne says, rolling her eyes, "be serious."

"You never know," Anna says, not easily put off by her dorm mate's grumpiness– she knows she'd be nicer to her if she'd slept.

"Must be running through those dreams, then," she says dryly, giving up and sloshing her cereal into the trash bin and getting up to return her tray, "because I wake up sore all over."

Anna quirks an eyebrow at Mary.

"You know what that means," she says.

"No," Mary asks, "what?"

Anna leans towards her and whispers, " _Sex_ dreams."

"Oh, Anna. You beautiful, tropical fish."

"I got that reference! And I'll take it. Rashida Jones is a _babe_."


	6. Chapter 6

**November 9, 2016, Wednesday, 11:31 AM**

Henry waits at his assigned table, tapping his pen against the edge of it, impatience personified.

There are groups of two and three clustered around their tables, all quietly working, heads bent over books and papers, flash cards being raised and put back into neat, tidy piles.

 _Tutoring_. Never in his life has he been subject to– well, no, actually, his father hired private instructors in almost every subject and sport, for all his children, during the summers in which they were home.

This is different, though. With everyone _seeing_ him. Knowing he's struggling in some subject or another…it's embarrassing.

The door swings open. A girl scans the room, lights on him sitting alone. She waves, comes over, and pulls out a chair.

She puts down a folder and a workbook on the desk. The light catches the "B" around the gold chain on her neck.

"You're here for French I, right?" she asks, taking off her sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket on her blouse.

"Yes–"

" _I'm Perseverance, remember?…"_

… _lifting her from the stairs, running through the fray…_

… _dark brown eyes, alight, stark against the bright white and gold of the mask…_

"It's–you."

"Yes…" she trails off, brow furrowed.

"It's you–you're," he clears his throat, "you're–you're late."

—

 **November 9, 2016, 11:32 AM**

Anne checks her phone.

"I'm _two_ minutes late," she says tersely.

It took her fifteen minutes and five different kinds of concealers to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, and she still didn't totally succeed. She must have lost track of time.

"My supervisor told me you were an _hour_ late last time," Anne snaps, "which I wouldn't have even known, because I left after the first fifteen, but yes, I'm two minutes late. You'll have to excuse me."

"Now," she says, diving right in, "that that's out of the way, let's start…you have," she says, glancing at her notes, "a C- in the class, so you need at least a B, preferably an A, obviously, on your next exam, to lift your grade. You turn in all the homework assignments, do well in oral," he smirks and she glares, " _presentations_ , but are struggling with quizzes and tests…"

"You must think I'm stupid," he says quietly, looking at this hands.

"No, not– not at all," she says, not unkindly.

Maybe she's been too harsh. Lack of sleep has made her edgy. Mary, Anna, and her newer friend, Megan Sheldon, have asked her if she's on her period at least a dozen times this week, collectively.

"Learning a new language is really hard– especially if you're learning after the age of five; it's a brain thing. And it's not like this is high school French. The other students I tutor say this course is really fast paced, that you've gone through a dozen chapters alread–"

"How many do you speak?"

"Besides…English?"

"Sure."

"Four," she answers, not wanting to sound boastful.

He grins from ear to ear.

"But it's– 'really hard'?" he asks teasingly.

"You look familiar," she says, the earnestness of his genuine smile sparking some sort of memory, "do we…have any classes together?"

"My name isn't anywhere in that folder of yours?"

"No. Default confidentiality here."

"I'm…amorous."

"And I'm a Virgo. What does–"

"No, I'm–"

He leans in closer to her and asks, in a low, velvety voice: "and do you? Persevere?"

She stills.

"I–I," she clears her throat, fiddling with her necklace, "without the mask, I didn't–"

"It's alright. I didn't either, at first."

She's blushing despite herself, remembering his hands on her waist, the intensity of his " _always_ ", him kissing her hand…

"What's your name?" he asks.

"I'm Anne. Anne Boleyn, but you don't have to tell me–"

"Mary's sister?"

"Yes…you know Mary?"

"I do. Henry Tudor."

—

 **November 9, 11:35 AM**

This…this is all…a bit much for her sleep-deprived brain, honestly. All the connections, everything she's heard about him, before meeting him, is about the guy sitting across from her…and so, that means, the guy sitting across from her, that _he's_ the one her thoughts have been straying to this past week, and he's…kind of her sister's ex?

How is she supposed to check his conjugations if all she can think about are Mary's words ( _he always wanted to go down on me_ ), and Lizzy's ( _honestly? he just knows what to do_ ) and…and…him pulling her flush against him on the dance floor, how it felt to be held by him, his hands warm on hers…

"I _hope_ you've heard of me," he admits, "otherwise that means I've made no impression."

"Yes, of course," she answers in a clipped tone, "Mary has only ever spoken of you fondly. And _honestly_."

–

Henry's not stupid; he can hear the implied accusation, read in between Anne's lines.

"And I her."

"That's good to hear. That you had nothing behind…what was being said."

"Of course not. Did you think–"

"I didn't know what to think."

"It was Valois. I would never–"

"I'm glad," she says, "anyway, water under the–"

"Fountain?" he quips.

—

"The fountain…" Oh. _That_.

"You were there?" Anne asks, feeling a blush rise to her face.

"No, sadly I only heard about it second hand. Sounded incredible, though."

She shrugs, trying to downplay her blushing with some nonchalance.

"He bruised her reputation, I bruised his tailbone. Way I see it, he's the one that got off easy."

"You may be my hero."

"Well," she says, "don't call me your hero till we see your grade up–and we're running out of time–for the session…do you have any homework that you haven't handed in yet?"

He nods, and passes the worksheet over to her.

—

"What do you like?" Anne asks, reading over his work, occasionally making a mark with her pen.

 _You._

"Like? What do you mean?"

"Do you like movies?"

Is she asking him– no, no she can't be.

"Of course."

"There are quite a few French movies on Netflix. The best one on there is 'Amélie'."

She passes his worksheet back to him.

"I can assign you all the extra work in the back of your textbook, but I find that lazy. One of the best ways to learn grammar and vocabulary in a new language is by watching a movie in that language."

"I've…never thought of that."

"Of course. We're taught to view movies as solely entertainment, not educational. But I recommend 'Amélie'. Your assignment is to–wait, let me write this down."

She speaks ridiculously fast, he notes. Henry's honestly surprised he's able to keep track. Everything about her is distracting: the dark waves of hair spilling around her shoulders, the sweep of her lashes as she writes, her mouth moving, her hand resting on her slender neck, how she smells as she leans close to him, like peaches and jasmine, pointing each thing on her list to him with the end of her pen…

She looks over the essay he has due, his notes (which she criticizes for their messiness), goes over the chapter his class is currently on, and before he knows it she's shaking his hand, asks "same time next week, right?" and all he can do is nod, dumbly.

—

 _For some reason there's a four-poster bed in this forest, but that doesn't matter, that's not what Henry's paying attention to, because…._

 _They're kissing on top of it, she's wearing a golden dress, he feels as if his world is ending (but only in the best possible way) he rips the bodice of the dress, kissing her from her neck to her navel, throws her skirt up and–_

—

 **November 10, 2016, Thursday, 8:30 AM**

 _This won't do_ Henry thinks, waking up twisted in his sheets, biting down on his fist, _this won't do at all_.

—

 **November 11, 2016, Friday, 7:35 PM**

Anne is sitting cross legged on her bed, reading Fitzgerald's 'Beautiful and the Damned' for her Lit class when she hears a knock on the door.

Puzzled, she marks the book and leaves it on her pillow. Anna must have forgotten her key, she supposes, walking over to open the door.

"Anna, did you get Thin Min-"

Henry Tudor is leaning against her doorframe.

"Don't have Thin Mints, I'm afraid. Sorry."

"How did you know–"

"Your dorm? Your RA told me."

"Well that's– a complete invasion of privacy," she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly _very_ aware of the fact that she's not wearing a bra.

"We know each other," he shrugs.

"I see."

"We know each other… _well_."

"I _see_."

—

She's wearing sweats and a Whitehall University sweatshirt, her hair piled on top of her head. Her face is clean. She looks pale– even her mouth is pale. There are dark circles under her eyes, but somehow her skin is still luminous.

"I'm having trouble focusing," he admits, sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

"On?"

 _Anything but you_ _._

"The movie. I need more– guidance, direction."

"Do you find it boring? Maybe I can recommend–"

"No, it's not that. Just having trouble writing notes and all the stuff I'm supposed to; need someone with me to make sure I'm staying on the right track, actually watching the movie and paying attention rather than, like…putting it on but just playing CandyCrush or whatever."

"That's a little out of my job description," she says, "so–"

"Oh, no, no, of course I know that. I'd consider it extra tutoring hours. For extra help."

"Right. But–"

"How much do you get paid per hour? For peer tutoring?"

"We don't. We just get college credit."

"Well, that's expensive, no? Especially here. Movie's–what? 2 hours? Plus time to take notes?"

"Henry, I don't–"

"Would that be enough?" he asks, taking two hundred dollar bills out of his wallet, "for your time?"

—

 _Jesus!_

"Um…"

Her mind is racing with all the things that would take care of, all the things her scholarship doesn't cover. Laundry detergent, shoes (her boots are worn down to the ground, her converse duct-taped on the soles), coffee, new highlighters, pens, notecards, scarves, hats, gloves…

She could go off-campus. She could go to _Starbucks_ , for God's sake, and not have to count her change before deciding what to get…she could go to the movies _after_ 5 pm.

He looks at her, expectant.

"Um," she says, voice slightly strangled, she clears her throat, "yes, that's fine, just–give me a second?"

"Of course."

She shuts the door behind her, then leans against it.

Ok. Alright. Ok.

She can do this. This is fine.

Really no big deal. Just her and Henry Tudor. Watching 'Amélie'. In her room.

No. Big. Deal.

—

 **7:45 PM, Friday**

Cute boys don't ever appear out of nowhere when you've just done your makeup and are wearing your cutest clothes, Anne thinks, oh no.

They'll always, however, make random surprise appearances when you're wearing sweats and you've just wiped your face clean of makeup and your lips are chapped and you're not wearing a bra and your hair's pulled up in a haphazard bun and you haven't slept in days…

Not that he's that cute, she thinks, lifting her sweatshirt over her head and sliding a bra in under the sleeves of her shirt.

Not that she should be thinking of his attractiveness at all, objectively or not, given that he's something like her sister's ex and his best friend's a dick and she has a very sweet, _very_ cute boyfriend.

Not that she cares what he thinks about what she looks like one way or another, she thinks, putting her sweatshirt back on and pulling out her chapstick from her kangaroo pocket and smashing it aggressively over her dry mouth.

He's so handsome he's almost ugly, actually, she decides. Those bee stung lips are ridiculous. He must go through a tub of lip balm a day. And those cheekbones? Pfft. The angular nature of his face just looks STUPID contrasting with the softness of his mouth. His elfish ears? Stupid. He should grow his stupid copper-blonde peach fuzz out, cover them up.

Like, what is he trying to prove, anyway? Looking like that; looking at her in that _way_ , that terribly intrusive way that makes her feel like she'd being stripped bare…it's just rude, honestly.

She's only doing this because he's paying her for extra tutoring hours and she needs the money.

That's the only reason.

That's the only reason there _can_ be.

—

 **7:47 PM, Friday**

"The wifi connection is kind of crap here," she says, "really slow, so I'm just going to put my DVD on."

"That's fine," he says, leaning against the doorframe still, hands in his pockets.

She waits for her laptop to read the disc, then pauses it as soon as the credits start.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks, walking over to her desk and pouring herself some coffee from her French press, "coffee?"

"Coffee? This late?"

Anne shrugs, opening the door of her mini fridge to grab a half gallon of milk, "I haven't been sleeping lately, no matter what I do. This at least tricks my body into thinking it doesn't mind being awake."

"I'm sorry. We could do this another time, I don't want to keep you from–"

"No, it's fine," she says, waving a hand, "I won't sleep regardless. Might as well earn some money."

"How does this work?" he asks, walking over to her desk, pointing to the French press, "I mean, I've seen it before, but never seen how it was made."

"You mean you've been served it before," she says, smirking, pouring milk into her coffee, "sure you don't want any?"

"Sure, if you have enough."

Anne grabs another styrofoam cup from the pack and pours it half full.

"You just take this," she says, grabbing a container of her ground coffee, "and you put some spoonfuls into the bottom of the glass, depending on how strong you want it. Then you fill it to the top with boiling water, let it sit for four minutes, and then plunge it," she taps on the lid of the Press, "with this thing."

"'Cafe la llave'," he reads the label, "is it good?"

"Very. Milk?"

He shakes his head, so she hands him his cup. Then she puts the French press in her fridge, and pulls the desk to her bed so they can see the laptop screen.

She transfers the laptop to the desk and sits on her bed to face it. He joins her.

"It's Latin American," she continues, "I try to get it at Food4Less when I can."

"Food for…less?" he sounds out, as if the words are foreign to him.

"The grocery–oh my God," Anne puts a hand over her chest and laughs, delighted, "you don't know what that is, do you?"

"No," he says, offended, "so? Why's that funny?"

"I forget," she continues, almost laughing hysterically now, "I forget that you're a Tudor…you…you probably get your groceries delivered by chartered plane–"

"No, I don't! That's ridicul-"

"–unpacked to your _golden_ fridge by fairies–so of course," she chokes out, eyes watering, "of course you don't know what Food4Less is! How could you?"

"You done now?" he asks.

"Yes. I think so."

"You done, amusing yourself at my expense?"

"Probably."

"Fairies…" Henry grumbles, opening his notebook, "honestly. Of all things."

"I'm sorry," she says, "I haven't slept in so long I think I'm bordering on hysteria. Shall we watch?"

"Please."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's notes:**

sorry to keep doing this, but is for some reason STILL not letting me read my reviews. it says i have four now but won't let me see any of them.

if you want to leave a review/have any constructive criticism i would love to hear it, you can either private message me or, if you want to comment as a guest, leave a comment on archiveofourown. this story is under boleynqueens there as well, same title.

and for some reason i can't get the first three paragraphs of this chapter to line break…it looks fine on my word document so not sure how to fix that. sorry about that as well.

hope you enjoy!

 **November 11, 2016, Friday, 8:00 PM**

When Amélie pulls the cord to her mean neighbor's cable during his sports game, Henry throws back his head and laughs. When the goldfish tries to commit suicide he says "what the fuck" and Anne has to pause and tell him to relax and pay attention to the words.

 _"Je n'aime pas dans les vieux films_ _américains quand les conducteurs ne regardent pas la route."_  
"What'd she say?"  
Anne pauses the movie again, exasperated.  
"Henry, the point of this is that you figure it out. I already know."  
He sighs.

"OK," Anne says, "I know you know what 'j'aime' means, so tell me what 'je n'aime' -"

"I don't like."

"Right. And then a few of those words are cognates, so that should help you."

"Films….American…conductors?"

"And what's the man in the car doing?"

"Driving. Oh. Okay, so…I don't like it when in films..."

"What kind of films?"

"Oh, right. American films. Why do they put the adjective after the noun?"

"Why do we put the adjective before the noun?"

He glares at her.

"Because that makes _sense_ , Anne."

"Henry-"

"Alright, alright, fine. I don't like it when…wait, there's an adjective before films too, that makes _no_ sense-"

"That part's not super important at this level, but if you know what-"

" _Vieux_? Old?"

"Yes!"

"So…I don't like it when in old American films…drivers…don't…"

"In English, what is regard another word for?"

"Look."

"Right. So?"

"I don't like it when in old American films…drivers don't look…route? I don't like it when in old American films driver's don't look at the route?"

"You got the gist. It's 'I don't like the way drivers never watch the road in old American movies.'"

"Why watch them, then, if you're just going to complain about Americans? What's her problem?"

"You're offended? Seriously? You're not even American!"

"Yes I am!" he says, affronted.

"Then why do you have an accent?"

"Boarding school in the UK, what else?"

"What else? Yeah, of course, how could I not have known?"

"I don't know."

"Oh my _God_. Anyway-"

"My mom bought literally every kind of Girl Scout cookie, so I have-"

Anna stops midsentence, stock-still at the doorway with a box in her hands.

Her eyes slide from Anne, to Henry.

"Hi," she says cautiously, "what's up, guys?"

"Studying," Henry answers, innocuous, drinking his coffee, "how are you?"

"Just...y'know...typical Friday night," Anna says, putting the box on her desk and going over to her bed. She sits down, takes her shoes off, and unravels the scarf from her neck.

"Do you want any, _Anne_ ," Anna asks, tearing the cardboard top of a box of Thin Mints.

"No," she answers, "I'm good. Would you like some coffee?"

"No," Anna says, putting her noise-canceling headphones on, " _I'm_ good."

"O...kay," Anne says, a little off-put by her friend's behavior.

She continues to help Henry with his notes, adding a note card of the applicable vocabulary to the pile.

He presses play and they start watching again.

Anne feels a buzz from the deep pocket of her sweats and slides her phone out.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent 8:06 PM**

Why are you watching a movie with Henry Tudor?

Panicked, Anne glances over at Henry, trying to assess whether he's read over her shoulder...his eyes are still on the computer screen.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Anna, he's right here! What if he had seen?

And I'm helping him with his French. It's a tutoring thing.

 **From: Anna Seville**

I know he's right here because I can SEE HIM.

Really? Huh. I don't think I've seen any of the other students you tutor in YOUR BED. Watching a movie with you. Cozy.

 **From: Anne**

He's paying me for tutoring extra hours outside of our session. It's not like I'm doing this for fun.

 **From: Anna**

You're asking for trouble.

"Want to take a break?" Henry asks, nodding to her phone. "You seem busy."

"No," she says, turning her phone on silent, "it's fine."

They're about 20 minutes through the movie. Henry's styrofoam cup is empty, and he starts ripping the top and throwing shreds into the cup.

"OOOOOH, THIS IS HOW IT STARTS, GOES OFF LIKE A...LAA...BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN!"

Anne glares daggers at her roommate, but Henry mainly looks amused.

"Yeeees?" Anna asks, lifting an ear off her headphones, Chemistry textbook open in her lap, highlighter in hand.

"Nothing. You're just...singing pretty loudly, there. Anna," Anne says, tilting her head, cupping her hand around her mouth and mouthing "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

"That's just how I study, Anne," Anna explains patiently.

" _Is_ it? Funny how I never noticed."

"You're just playing the movie pretty loud," Anna says, "so..."

"Maybe we can use headphones?" Henry offers, turning to Anne, "d'you have-"

"I have some earbuds but only one of them works. I don't need to hear it, though, I've seen it a few times-"

"Y'know what?" Henry says, closing his workbook, "I have a TV in my dorm, and we have our own modem, so Netflix shouldn't be a problem...and that way we won't bother you."

Anna backpedals, "Oh, no, it's not that big a dea-"

"No, we don't want to disturb your studying...you're premed, right?"

"She is," Anne confirms, swinging her legs over the side of her bed, "sounds good to me, just let me grab my charger..."

"You can-"

"Bye, Anna!" Anne calls.

Henry opens the door for her and waves to her friend, who waves back, unsmiling.

 **November 11, 2016, Friday, 8:08 PM**

"Well, _she_ doesn't like me," Henry says mildly.

"You're not used to that, are you?"

"Used to what?"

"People not liking you."

Henry stops to open the door of the entrance to the girl's dorm for her.

"What do you mean?" he asks, leading her down the pathway.

There's a biting wind that makes the branches of the trees lining the pavement shiver. Anne crosses her arms to protect herself from the cold, but settles on pulling her hood up and tugging the strings tight to shield her face.

"What do you think I mean?" she retorts.

"I don't know," he asks, stopping for a bicyclist that crosses their way and swerving around to face her, "that's why I'm asking."

She stops as well; apparently this is something he needs to settle now.

He has a commanding presence, an energy that radiates confidence. Anne is sure he's used to people being alternately awed and intimidated by him, but she doesn't bend so easily.

A less steady person would feel the intensity of those stormy blues burn right through them, but Anne burns right back.

"I'm not sure why you're getting offended-"

"I'm not," he insists.

"You seem it. But regardless, I mean what I said. You're used to people liking you. So I don't know _why_ you're trying to make me say I mean something else. Because I won't."

"Not everyone likes me."

"No. But you think they should."

He stares at her. She stares back.

It's cold (Los Angeles _does_ get cold, usually at night, their tourists always walk around wearing t-shirts and shorts with puzzled and offended looks; as if they're looking for a refund), and she would like to ask if they are, eventually, going to walk to his dorm or not, but that would feel like losing.

"Do you?" he asks, quiet.

"Do I what?"

Henry crosses his arms, finally breaks eye contact and looks to the side instead of at her, as if the library in the distance is suddenly fascinating.

"It's this way," he says abruptly, nodding to the direction of the library and taking off, not looking behind to see if she's following, "you coming?"

She does, matching his pace to walk besides him.

"I guess," he says, "it wouldn't bother me if I understood why. Why she doesn't like me, that is-"

"God, I don't know. Maybe it's girlfriend solidarity; her being rude to you because she thinks you snubbed Mary, though I know that's isn't what happened...maybe she just doesn't. I don't know."

"It's whatever," he says with a shrug, "but for the record, I don't think people should like me."

"If you say so."

"I don't-"

"You expect them to. That's why it bothers you that she doesn't. You're a Tudor," Anne says with a shrug, "so it makes sense."

"Why do you keep saying that like it's a bad thing?"

"It's not. And I'm not. It's just is. You're a Tudor and I'm a Boleyn, and our names mean something."

"Means what?"

 _You sure are stuck on what things mean_ , she thinks.

"For you or for me?"

"This is it," Henry says, nodding to the 4-story brick building up ahead.

Anne thinks maybe that's it, that he's finally letting this weird interrogation go, but as he opens the door he says "me"; so apparently he's just tenacious as hell.

"You want me to read you a list of things you are?"

"Top floor," he says, heading to the stairs, "and yes."

"You're...charming, bright, athletic, rich... attractive," she admits.

 **8:10 PM**

Henry smirks at this. _Damn right_.

"And as for being a Tudor...well, I don't want to assume. I didn't grow up in the Tudor household."

"Go ahead."

"You were taught that you were important. That your name was important and that you were too, for carrying it."

They are still in the entrance of the building, the start of the hallway. The walls are covered in bulletin boards.

Henry's at a loss, mainly because she's hit the truth of his childhood and upbringing in so few words.

 **8:11 PM**

Anne sees a muscle in his jaw twitch.

"Am I wrong?" she asks, hugging the notebook to her chest.

Henry walks past the bulletin boards without saying a word.

Anne follows him, all the way up four flights of stairs, in complete silence.

He unlocks the door at the top of it, and leaves it open for her, but doesn't look back, instead sitting on his bed and unlacing his shoes.

She's _not_ wrong, apparently, but she's beginning to wish that she was.

Anne closes the door behind her (just because he's being impolite doesn't mean that _she'll_ forget her manners), in awe at the size of his dorm.

The room is huge-the whole floor. There's two queen beds (unheard of in dorms), one near the door and one next to the window, facing the courtyard, with matching dark blue bedspreads.

Sports equipment is sprawled around the floor, hampers by each side of the couch, both desks and nightstands.

There's another door that she assumes is a bathroom, on the opposite wall facing the beds.

Anne had no idea there were any dorms on campus this big. She wonders if the girls' dorm has an equivalent or if this is the only one.

 **8:15 PM**

Henry switches the TV on, uses his game console to select the Netflix app, and pulls 'Amélie' up.

"Where were we?" he asks.

"I think fifteen minutes in," Anne answers, standing, waiting for him to sit.

He walks over to a case of water bottles under the window and grabs two, comes over to her and hands her one.

Anne takes it, thanks him, gives a cautious sip.

Henry sits on the couch.

Anne sits next to him, but not too close- she does have to look at his notes but she doesn't want to get too "cozy", as Anna accused.

"And what does being a Boleyn mean?" he asks.

 _A Boleyn?_

 _Oh. "[Our names] mean something"._

Well, for Anne it meant being known as Mary's Sister. It meant glasses and AP classes and braces, eating lunches in the library, her hair in two plaits.

It meant a lack of confidence that existed until she spent a summer abroad in Paris, traded the glasses for contacts, lost the braces and gained a sense of fashion. She let her hair down from its braids and let the boys that worked at the _supermarché_ and the _boulangerie_ flirt with her, sometimes flirted back. She went to cafes and finally spoke and argued of everything she'd read, and realized she could keep up with adults in debates pretty decently.

Then it meant love notes in her locker and teachers writing her recommendations, debate team and speech awards, joining Mary at parties and bars. Just like that, Mary was Anne's Sister instead of the other way around.

It meant being her father's favorite and all the pressure that came with that title.

Being a Boleyn meant $50 for each A and $100 for each 5 on an AP exam; meant clipping coupons at night, meant aprons and uniforms from each part time job hanging in the laundry room always.

But she's not going to mention any of that; obviously.

"We were taught that we're only as important as we make ourselves," she answers instead, trying to wrap it up neatly.

"So you learned four languages to prove that you are?"

"Something like that," she says tersely, "are we going to watch this or not?"

 **8:35 PM**

"This isn't that fun," he notes, after the 20th time she's paused the movie and asked him if he recognizes the subject pronoun, the grammar, the vocabulary from his recent chapters.

"Well, it's not supposed to be _that_ fun. It's supposed to be more fun than just studying, without neglecting studying altogether."

Henry shrugs, an Anne feels herself snap- she has two hundred dollars in her pocket but his attitude's getting on her fucking nerves. It's almost like he doesn't care about improving his grade, but she doesn't know why else he would pay her for her time _("Always," he whispers_ ).

"You'll absorb a little bit of it if you just watch it all the way through, but not enough. You have to write down the words you're hearing to make them stick. And you have to pay attention more than you normally would if you were just watching a movie."

"You hungry?" he asks, absently, flipping through his phone, "I'm starving."

"I guess."

"Order a pizza," he says, passing her his phone, "my treat."

 **9:10 PM**

"This is bizarre," he says, picking toppings off, "what is this?"

"Banana peppers. I told you you should pick your own," she says.

"I didn't think you would pick such a monstrosity. Like, really. I'm amazed."

"You have no one to blame but yourself."

"I just didn't know it was possible to mess up food this badly-what-what on _earth_ are you doing?"

"I'm eating."

"It's not a sandwich," he says, scandalized, watching as she bites into the folded slice.

"It is now."

 **10:03 PM**

"By the way, I forgot to tell you-you're a really good dancer."

"Thank you. I took ballet."

"Really?"

"Yes. Recommended by my wrestling coach."

"Well, it worked. You're very graceful. I had to take extra lessons back in October, to learn the routine-dancing was always Mary's thing."

"And you? What was your thing?"

"Reading. And climbing trees."

"At the same time?"

"Sometimes. What was your thing?"

"Pretty girls. And sports."

"At the same time?"

"Hilarious."

 **From: Henry Percy**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent November 11, 2016, Friday, 10:33 PM**

do you know where Anne is? i've been texting her but no answer...i got her some chamomile tea because i know she's had trouble sleeping.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Henry Percy**

 **Sent 10:41 PM**

actually she's FINALLY sleeping and i don't want to risk waking her...maybe leave it outside our door? or come by later?

 **From: Henry Percy**

 **Sent 10:43 PM**

oh sure np. glad she's sleeping

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent November 11, 2016, Friday, 10:49 PM**

i covered for you. i really hope i didn't need to.

 **11:11 PM**

By the time Amélie has her ear pressed against the door, Nino on the other side,Henry feels something warm and heavy on his shoulder.

Anne is passed out, the top of her head resting against his collarbone, breathing deeply.

He sits with her for a few minutes. He finds he doesn't mind at all, watching a movie with this girl asleep on his shoulder.

When the credits roll, he lifts her legs, carefully, onto his lap and scoops her up.

He sets her down in his bed and tucks her in.

Henry puts his wireless headphones on and starts the movie over, this time with English subtitles instead of French, as she instructed in her notes.

Her guidance has helped him quite a bit, because he now churns out flash cards with relative ease, pausing and pronouncing them himself, (quietly, so as not to wake her) highlighting corresponding words and phrases spoken in the movie, in his textbook.

Henry feels hyper-focused, almost as if he's taken Adderall-

Well, not really as if he's taken Adderall. He was on it when he was younger, when his father had reached the peak of frustration with his younger son's rambunctiousness. It only exacerbated the situation, had Henry running, crashing through the house with a broomstick, yelling that he was Harry Potter, knocking over his mother's Ming vases…

That was before they learned his energy could be channeled and managed easily enough through athletics.

By the time midnight rolls around there's a crop circle of note cards and sheets of paper surrounding his feet, while Anne sleeps peacefully in his bed all the while.


	8. Chapter 8

**November 12, 2016, Saturday, 12:00 AM (midnight)**

"Your building really doesn't have an elevator?"

"Not to my floor, sorry."

"You know I'm wearing heels, yes?"

"You could take them off?"

"These stairs are not clean."

"Sorry, we're almost there."

"You better be worth it, yeah?"

"Trust me," Brandon says, taking the hand of the girl he met an hour ago and kissing it, "I'm worth every step."

Brandon unlocks the door, and it swings open to his best friend, cross-legged on the floor and writing something, mouthing words as the TV screen flickers.

"You're studying? On a Friday night?"

Henry's head snaps up and he makes a 'ssh' gesture, pointing to his bed.

Brandon looks over and sees a waterfall of long, black hair on Henry's pillow. Whoever it is (well, some girl, obviously) is sleeping facing the wall.

His date gives Henry a short wave, then turns to Brandon and asks, "You are other bed, ye-"

Henry shushes her, actually out loud this time. She scoffs, and he takes off his headphones, gets up, and opens the door, gesturing for them to come out as well.

"This is joke?" she asks.

"Yes, Henry," Brandon echoes, "you're joking, right?"

Henry puts two fingers up, mouths "two seconds, please". Brandon rolls his eyes and nods to the girl to follow him out. She rolls her eyes, but does so.

Once they're all outside the room, Henry says, "Look, she's sleeping, I really don't want to wake her-"

"This is my room, too!"

"No, I know, just-"

Brandon's date has her arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, can you excuse us a moment?" Henry asks.

She rolls her eyes and takes her phone out of her purse, and says, in a bored voice, "I'd hurry if you want me to stay."

They walk down the stairs, close to the dorm still, as she leans on the wall and texts (hopefully not some other male possibility for tonight, Brandon thinks).

"Look-"

"Don't do this to me, man!" Brandon hisses, "did you _see_ her?"

"Yes, very nice, but-"

"She's _Brazilian_ ," he whispers, " _please_. You can't do this to me, not tonight."

"Here take-hey," he calls out, then, under his breath, "what's her name?"

"You think I know? We met at Lilac. I bought her a drink, she grabbed my ass…I didn't ask questions."

Henry sighs, then calls out, "Sweetheart, could you-"

"It's Simone," she says, sulking over.

"Simone," Henry says sweetly, flashing one of his credit cards "tell me, would you rather spend the night in a shared dorm or a Marriot suite?"

"You have wrong idea," she says, bristling and shoving her phone in her purse.

"Pardon?"

"I'm not a hooker," she says indignantly, storming past them down the stairs.

"No, wait-"

"Henry, I will kill-"

"Look," Henry says, following her down, "wait, listen, that's not-my friend is in there, she's sleeping, I'm studying, and I just don't want to be bothered, but as a favor to my _best_ friend, who I _believe_ you were just interested in-"

"He made me walk upstairs!"

"Yes, it's an old building, but hear me out- no, look I just wanted to give you guys the card as a favor. No funny business. Hell, you can get room service if you want, I don't care, I have a ton of points…"

They've stopped at the second flight of steps. The mention of room service seems to have made her stop.

"What, are you rich?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at Henry, looking his attire (a ratty sweatshirt and gym shorts) up and down, skeptically.

"Hella," Brandon confirms.

"How will we get there, if I'm to take this card?"

"My dad's Henry Tudor-"

"No shit?"

"No shit. I have a pretty-much eternal Uber code, from their exclusivity contract."

"I don't know if I believe you."

"Look me up," Henry says, crossing his arms, "I'll wait."

She does, and then she lifts her phone up, examining a photo, then squinting and comparing it to the guy before her.

"Well, fuck. It _is_ you."

"Well, fuck, indeed, Simone. Well, fuck, indeed. So-you in now?"

Simone nods, so Henry hands the card to Brandon with a wink.

"Just put in the address of the nearest hotel and the code I gave you earlier should still work," he tells his friend.

"Ok, but, Henry-"

"Have fun, kids!" Henry calls, walking back upstairs.

"You have good friend," Simone says.

"Yeah," he says dryly, "he's a real prince."

 **November 12, 2016, Saturday, 1:01 AM**

As soon as his hand starts to cramp, Henry piles all the note cards together, closes his books and stacks them, and turns off the TV.

He goes to Brandon's bed, pulls the covers up and lies down, whispers "good night".

Anne sigh, face towards him, mouth slightly parted.

Henry watches her sleep for a moment, then closes his eyes and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 **November 12, 2016, Saturday, 8:21 AM**

Henry wakes up feeling absolutely energized. Anne is still asleep.

Wait- _is_ she still asleep? She's really, really quiet…

He goes over to check her pulse. Definitely still alive. Just breathing deeply.

He grabs his wallet from his nightstand, deciding to get coffee. No reason, really, just that she made them some last night, and it's the polite thing to do…

He decides to jot down a note first:

 **Morning, sleeping beauty,**

 **You're welcome to use the shower. There's clean towels in the bathroom.**

 **-H**

Just as he's tying his shoes, her phone starts buzzing and, not wanting to wake her, he takes it. He considers swiping "ignore", for a second, but the screen says Anna Seville is calling, and well…he's never claimed to be a good person.

"Yes?" he answers softly, shutting the door behind him gently and walking down the stairs.

"Anne?"

"Nope," he says cheerily, "who's this?"

"What do you mean, 'who's this'? Every fucking phone says who it is before you answer."

"You sound like you could use some coffee. I'm getting some for us, d'you want me to pick one up for you, too?"

"Does she know you're using her phone?"

"Oh, I don't think so, given that she's still asleep…"

"Did you take advantage of my friend?" she demands.

"I'm offended by that accusation."

"With _your_ rep? Really?"

"Do I have a reputation for taking _advantage_ of girls? That is gross misrepresentation."

"No," Anna admits, "just boning them indiscriminately."

"'Indiscriminately', wow- y'know, this is really rude. I have half a mind to hang up-"

"Look, Tudor, I don't know what your game is, but-"

"I don't have a 'game'. Unless by game you mean trying to improve my education and pay for a few extra hours of tutoring-"

"Yeah, I'm sure you value your education _so_ -"

"-and, anyway, it's not my fault your friend's a narcoleptic who can't stay awake during a movie. You are more than welcome to come over, wake her up, and drag her back to your dorm if you think I did anything untoward."

Anna says nothing, but he can practically feel her fuming.

He's in line at the coffee cart now. More than a few people are looking over their shoulders at him. He smiles at them- _always nice to have fans_.

"Look, all we did was study. Then she fell asleep, I kept studying, and then I fell asleep. Think what you want."

"I think you're an ass."

"Well, I can't say you're wrong."

"Tudor-"

"Seville. Do you want me to go back and wake her up?"

"No," she admits in a surly tone.

"She hasn't gotten any decent sleep in a while, am I wrong?"

 _Sweet, sweet silence._

"I plan to let her keep sleeping for as long as she'd needs. Do you have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with _you_."

"Well, that goes without saying."

"Just…"

Anna sighs and Henry can hear some terrible, strangled noise from the other ends. He laughs.

"Just tell her I called when she wakes up, please? And that Henry texted her?"

"Who?" he asks lazily.

"Henry Percy, her _boyfr_ -"

"Two coffees, please!"

"Tudor?"

"Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you?"

"Tell her that-"

"God, terrible reception suddenly, talk to you later!"

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Henry Tudor**

 **Sent November 12, 2016, Saturday, 10:41 AM**

So we're supposed to check out by 11 AM but she wants to stay- what should I do?

 **From: Henry Tudor**

You're welcome ;-)

 **From: Brandon**

Yeah, yeah, yeah- seriously, though, what should I do?

 **From: Henry**

Call the front desk and tell them you're staying another night.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

It's ok to charge that?

 **From: Henry**

It's fine. Take your time

 **November 12, 2016, Saturday, 11:01 AM**

Anne wakes up in blue, flannel sheets-wait- these are not-these are not _her_ sheets-

"Morning."

Henry Tudor is sitting at the desk next to her bed (well, not her bed, the bed's she's sleeping in- _whatever_ \- everything's fuzzy), typing on his laptop, a bowl of cereal sitting to the left of him.

"What time is it?" she asks groggily, lifting the blankets off of her and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"It's 11."

"Oh…wow."

Henry closes a window quickly, then opens another one as she gets out of bed.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You just closed out of something when I came over," she says, looking over his shoulder, "like I'm your teacher walking through rows and you were on Tumblr or something."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What, were you watching porn?"

"Christ, no! Little early for that, even for me. I was on email-"

"Whatever," she says, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, "sorry I crashed, I should get going…"

 **11:02 AM**

"You don't have to go."

Reflexively, he pushes the note he wrote earlier into the trash bin- _stupid_. _"Sleeping beauty"-stupid idea, Henry._

"You can take a shower if you want."

"What, do I smell?"

"No…but I'm sure it's better than the communal. Even a bathroom shared by two guys has to be better than one shared by a hundred girls."

"It's hardly a hundred."

"Fine," he says, crossing his arms, "go if you want. But there's an extra toothbrush in the drawer that's unopened that's..." he coughs, clearing his throat, takes a sip of water, "y'know, just always been there. And clean towels. And I bought coffee earlier, but it's probably cold now…"

 _God, shut up!_

"Alright, I will…thank you."

"Not a problem."

Henry waits till she closes the bathroom door to pull up the closed draft:

 **From: henrytudor**

 **To: HenryTudor**

 **Last saved November 12, 2016, Saturday 11:00 AM**

Father,

I've been sitting on some business courses here, scouting for new talent. The brightest and most innovative student, the most well-spoken, in the top 10% of his class, is by far Henry Percy.

I've attached some articles about him and his accomplishments. Serendipitously, his father also owns Northumberland, one of the biggest and more popular chains that sell smart phone accessories (cases, screen protectors, etc.)

Definitely the one I would most recommend for your current intern shortage.

-Henry


	9. Chapter 9

_Henry waits. He's in a forest again, pacing. He's been waiting for a while._

 _He hears hoofbeats, and sees Anne in front of him._

 _She's wearing a red gown, tight at the waist, hair flowing around her shoulders. She dismounts from her horse and begins to take off her gloves._

 _Her mouth is stained red. She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in that moment and he can scarcely wait to have her in his arms._

 _Henry rushes up to her. She doesn't look at him, turns her face away when he kisses her on the cheek._

 _"Sweetheart, I have missed you…I have been counting down the hours until-"_

 _"Tell me this," she interrupts, voice scarcely a whisper, "are you ever going to leave her?"_

 _"My own heart. You know I have been fighting that battle for years-"_

 _"I do know, Henry. But when," she asks desperately, "will it be over?"_

 _"Soon, darling, soon," he soothes, taking her hands in his._

 _"You've said that many times. And I used to think it true. But it hasn't been true yet, Majesty."_

 _"Anne it's more difficult than-"_

 _"Don't!" she shouts, wrenching her hands from his, "I can't bear to hear any more excuses!"_

 _"Do you still have a ring on your finger or not?" she continues, throwing one glove at him, "is she still Queen or isn't she?"_

 _"Anne, stop this!"_

 _"I plan to," she says, hitting his shoulder with hers as she shoves past him._

 _She stalks through the forest, crushing branches in her wake._

 _"Anne, wait-"_

 _"Don't follow me!"_

 _"Anne!"_

 _He chases after her, a red blur, the long train of her gown trailing behind her through the leaves on the ground._

" _Do you think you can have us both?" she yells, walking fast, "do you think I will continue to let you insult my honor in this way?"_

" _Darling, please try to understand–"_

" _I have been the most understanding woman on God's green earth, Your Majesty! And the most patient! I have been waiting, and waiting, and_ _ **waiting**_ _for you to find a way! But it seems a way will not be–"_

 _Anne shrieks, a terrible sound._

" _Anne?" he calls, running now, "darling, are you hurt?"_

 _He finds her, lying on her side, leg at a funny angle._

" _I tripped," she says faintly, "I tripped, trying to run away from you…"_

 _"Sweetheart," he says, rushing to her side, "come, let me help you–"_

" _No," she says, tears streaming down her face, "do not call me that again."_

" _Anne?"_

" _No more 'sweetheart', no more 'darling'. The next time you call me an endearment," she declares, standing up with a grimace, "it had better be 'Queen'."_

 **November 13, 2016, 8:45 AM**

Well, _that_ was weird, Henry thinks as he throws his covers off of him.

He rubs his eyes…the dream is falling away from him in pieces, but he remembers bits.

He's left with vague feelings of guilt, probably residual from the dream- which is ridiculous, given that it's a _dream_.

He doesn't mind the 'Your Majesty' part, though. _That_ was lit.

 **November 13, 2016, Sunday, 11:24 AM**

Around half an hour ago, Henry went into Whitehall Library with the best of intentions. He was going to find a biography on Napoleon for his Global History paper, but somewhere in between Ancient Civilizations and World War I, he gave up.

It's not due till Tuesday anyway-he's not sure why he went here on a Sunday morning, like some nerd.

So he's been leaning against this shelf, reading some stupid BuzzFeed article on his phone (He _reads_ , okay? His focus might waver if it's longer than 200 words, but whatever) to keep "up to date on the Millennial Market" (Henry Tudor I's words, not his, he would never say something that sounded so stupid) when he hears footsteps.

He looks up from his phone and sees her at a study station, head bent over a textbook, in between a section on jousting/chivalry and the works of Erasmus.

Henry grabs a random book lying face down on the shelf and hides his face behind it.

Percy sneaks up behind her, grabs her shoulders and says 'boo'.

She doesn't startle at all, but she smiles when he kisses her on the cheek.

"I have to go print something," he says, "see you, princess."

"Bye," she giggles.

 _Ugh._

Henry waits till her boyfriend disappears from sight before he walks over to the table.

"Princess, huh?"

"Eavesdrop much?"

She keeps reading.

"This seat taken?"

"Yes."

"Great."

He pulls out the opposite chair and sits in it.

"It's _rude_ to eavesdrop, y'know," she says, underlining a passage, "were you raised in a barn or something?"

"I was raised in a mansion. At least _try_ to come up with better insults."

"I can't tutor you again today, I have my own studying to-"

"And really, you two were the ones interrupting me. I was here first-"

"You were the first person in this library _ever_? Wow-"

"- _trying_ to do some research, so actually, if anyone should be offended here, it's me."

"That so?"

"Yes. But I forgive you," he says with a wave of his hand.

"Thrilled. What are you researching, then?"

He hadn't realized he'd brought the book over yet. She grabs it and reads the title aloud: "The love poems of Pablo Neruda?"

"Mmhmm."

"You're in a poetry class?"

"Sure."

"What do you mean, 'sure'?"

"Anyway…'princess'?" he asks, wrinkling his nose, " _really_?"

"What?"

"Like, is that a regular thing? Does he call you that often?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

"Doesn't suit you."

" _Excuse_ me?" she asks, crossing her arms.

"Doesn't," he says with a shrug, "sorry."

"Says who?"

"Says me. I'd never call you that."

"Why would you be calling me anything in the first place?"

He shrugs again, slides the pen that's been tucked behind his ear. Henry bites the end of it-a bad habit that persists ("Oral fixation" _,_ his high school counselor had informed him after he was in her office after a fistfight, chewing on a pen as she scolded him. "You're telling _me_ ," he had said with a wink. She kicked him out of her office after that.), smiling around it.

"You tell me."

"What, if we…were dating?"

"Mmhmm."

"In what _universe_ ," she demands hotly, "would we be dating?"

"Who knows," he says, all-out grinning now, totally blasé to her obvious irritation, "stranger things have happened."

He's planning on leaving her with that food for thought, even starts to zip his jacket up and puts his phone is his pocket, when she says, "Wait."

 _Well, well, well. How the tables-have tabled._

"I can take a hint," he says, getting up from his chair, "I'll leave you alone-"

"Just…"she closes her eyes, as if she can't bear to look at him while she asks, "what would you call me, then?"

Henry makes it seem as if this question takes some serious reflection, though he already knows (has known, since he sat down, actually) how he's going to answer.

"Queen," he answers, as if he's just settled on it, "nothing else would fit."

He watches the color rise to her face, satisfied that his answer has had the desired effect.

There's an apple in his book bag, and he chooses this moment to roll it out and take a bite, staring at her as he does so.

"See you Tuesday," he says cheerily after walking away.

Seems the library wasn't a total bust, after all.

 **November 13, 2016, Sunday, 11:40 AM**

Anne has just been sitting her, fuming ( _burning_ ) for the last few minutes.

She's furious that she played into his game, right into his hands; furious that her curiosity got the better of her and she asked such a _stupid_ question. Furious at the effect it's having on her.

Henry comes back to the table, printed assignment in hand, and asks, "What's wrong? You okay?"

"Nothing, just," she starts to unbutton her sweater, fan herself, "it's warm in here, no?"

"Not really," he says, opening his laptop.

She feels like she's on fire.

"Maybe I just need water or something."

 _Or a long, cold shower._

"Be right back," she says, "watch my stuff?"

"Sure."

She walks quickly to the bathroom, rushes like she's racing to some sort of finish line.

She grabs the handle- _unlocked, fantastic_ -and goes to the sink.

The water pressure's weak, but it'll have to do. She puts it on the coldest setting possible and splashes her face, to no avail. It's like she's caught a fever from which there is no escape.

Anne looks at herself in the mirror. Her face is flushed still, and feels warm when she touches it.

Anne opens to the door to the restroom, peeks down the hall to see if anyone's in line to use it.

No one.

She slams the door shut, locks it and presses her back against it.

And then, she starts to do something that would be considered _very_ rude to do here by polite society, something that should _not_ be done in public restrooms.

But, whatever. It's private, a single, locked, and it's not as if she's being unhygienic, really, she reasons with herself…all she had to was dip her hand below the waistband on her skirt, the skirt and sweater tied around her waist are a sufficient barrier between her backside and the door, after all…

As soon as she's finished she goes over to the sink, turns the water on (with her _elbow_ , thank you very much) and washes her hands, three times, in scalding hot water with lots of soap.

"Took you a while," Henry says when she returns to her seat, "sure you're alright?"

"Mmhm" she says, clearing her throat, "there was just, ah- long line to the restroom."

 **From: HenryTudor**

 **To: henrytudor**

 **Sent November 13, 2016, Sunday, 2:09 PM**

You have the free time to do this work for me?

I can't say I don't appreciate it, but it'd probably be more appropriate for you to focus on your studies. I know your French grade has dipped recently.

As you know, there are no internships available in our local offices at this time.

Is this Percy amenable to working out of state?

I've done some research and you are correct, he's a very qualified candidate. And I know you don't make recommendations easily.

 **November 13, 2016, Sunday, 4:32 PM**

"Percy!"

Henry's in front of the student bulletin board outside, skimming the postings when he hears someone call his name.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Henry Tudor, beaming at him, waving. He gets up from the bench he's sitting on near Victor Hugo fountain, pats Charles Brandon (who's sitting with him, of course) on the back over and strides over to where Percy's standing.

"Glad to run into you," Tudor says.

"Me?" he asks, puzzled.

"Don't see any other Percy's around, do you?"

"You know who I am?"

"'Course I do."

Percy's fairly certain Tudor has never talked to him in his life, but his confidence is so great, so overwhelming, that he's suddenly unsure; his charisma so affecting that he can't help but smile at his classmate's attention.

"I've always admired you," he says with a shrug, "come, walk with me."

Tudor throws an arm over his shoulder and leads him down the path, walking towards the direction of the boys' dorms.

Percy's panicked, suddenly- 'admired him'? Does he have a crush on him or something? That wouldn't really make sense with his reputation as a womanizer, but-

"You're very talented. President of the Entrepreneur Club, President of the Tech Club, award winner..."

"Oh. Well, thanks very much."

"I know a secret-would you like to hear it?"

"Sure."

Tudor lets go of his him, then stops in the path he's taken him on, gestures towards a jacaranda tree, and walks over. Percy follows him.

"You have to promise not tell- I'm not really supposed to tell you, actually, but if it were me I would want to know…"

"I promise. What is it?"

Tudor steps closer to him, takes a few furtive glances around the campus courtyard before whispering, "Red Dragon-well, my father, specifically-is interested in you."

"For what?"

"Employment."

"What?!"

"Well, just an internship," Tudor shrugs, "I don't know if you'd be interested-"

"Of course I am! God, this…this is amazing! Tudor is my business idol, really, I…"

Red Dragon is notorious for its exclusivity, a low acceptance rate, and the list of highly qualified applicants looking to be hired is miles long. The benefits package is incredible, as are the networking connections to be made. _Business Insider_ called it "the hardest place to get a foot in the door, but a foot in the door there is in for life."

"The thing is," Henry says, "they don't have any local jobs available. Think they're all out of state, or in Northern California, maybe. So I'm not sure…if that'd be alright. How you'd finish up the term, that sort of thing, if you did choose to take it."

"I'd figure something out," Percy says, "for this kind of opportunity, I'd…I can't- I can't believe this."

"I just want you to be sure," Tudor says, "my father, he doesn't like being rejected. And he has a long memory. So I can dissuade him if you'd-"

"No, no, don't do that. Please. I'll say yes. I'd be crazy not to, with _my_ career goals."

"He'll be glad. And I'll encourage it, since I can see you're so enthusiastic."

"That would-wow. That would be amazing. You'd do that?"

"Of course. Why not?"

Tudor extends his hand. Percy shakes it.

"Expect a call. And good luck."

 **From: henrytudor**

 **To: HenryTudor**

 **Sent November 13, Sunday, 7:18 PM**

I always have the time to do a favor for you, and you always need younger, tech-fluent talent. Or so you tell me.

And my tutoring is going well, so I don't think French will be as much of a problem anymore. My tutor's excellent.

Percy admires you greatly- you are his 'business idol'. I believe he would even work for you in Japan, if that was where the position was offered.


	10. Chapter 10

**From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent November 14, 2016, Monday, 5:01 PM**

Hey, just saw your new status…you ok? Wanna talk about it?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

No. But I will be.

 **From: Mary**

Ok…let me know if there's anything you need.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Henry Tudor**

 **Sent November 14, 2016, Monday, 5:30 PM**

Just saw Lizzy and Gil Talboys pretty cozy in the library…you know about that?

 **From: Henry Tudor**

I honestly could not care less. But no, I didn't.

 **From: Brandon**

Aren't you two still a thing?

 **From: Henry**

Well, actually I do care. Talboys is kind of a tool. Hope she knows she can do better.

 **From: Brandon**

So…you're not hooking up?

 **From: Henry**

No. We're friends.

 **From: Brandon**

…sure.

 **From: Henry**

We are.

 **From: Brandon**

Since when are you friends with a girl?

 **From: Henry**

Since always. Fuck off, man.

 **From: Brandon**

Just trying to keep you on the up-and-up! Sheesh.

 **From: Henry**

Besides, even if I were interested, she told me she likes someone. Like, a lot.

 **From: Brandon**

Really…who?

 **From: Henry**

None of your business.

 **From: Brandon**

You don't know, do you?

 **From: Henry**

…no. But she told me they're a sophomore, and that rules Talboys out. She's probably just being friendly.

 **From: Brandon**

Looked more flirty than friendly.

 **From: Henry**

With Lizzy, they're one and the same.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Jennifer Parker**

 **Sent November 17, 2016, Thursday, 3:04 PM**

Hey, can I ask you a favor?

 **From: Jennifer Parker**

Sure, what's up?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

I know you're a stickler for the rules, but would it be alright if I had two guests instead of one to the next party?

 **From: Jennifer**

Depends. Why?

 **From: Mary**

Well, I want my sister there but also my friend needs to get laid.

 **From: Jennifer**

Oh? Elaborate, please.

 **From: Mary**

Ok…well, she's basically a goddess among the nerds but they're too shy to ask her out, and she's too proud to ask them. Also she's really tense and I just think she needs it.

 **From: Jennifer**

I see. Well, there are way too many people going to the Homecoming party tomorrow. But I guess you can bring your friend and Anne to the Saturday one.

 **From: Mary**

Great, thanks!

Anne used to never see Henry Tudor, and now, suddenly, she's seeing him everywhere.

Sure, she knows technically he was _there_ at that first Beta Thau party back in August, but Mary wouldn't even let her look at him.

Usually she'd at least look up Mary's various flings and boyfriends on Facebook, to make sure they weren't creeps, but she'd been busy. And besides, with what Henry Percy had told her about him, she doubted it'd last long (though with Mary, they never did).

They have no classes together.

The first time she'd really seen him was at the Masquerade. But even _that_ didn't really count- his face was obscured behind the mask. All she saw was blue-grey eyes. She could see he was at least six feet tall, could see his ridiculous cheekbones…the brightest smile she had ever seen and the strongest arms that had ever held her…

The first time she _really_ saw Henry Tudor, not in costume, was at tutoring.

And then private _Amelie_ tutoring.

Then…the…Library Incident.

Then more tutoring.

And now every-goddamn-where.

She'd applied for a job at the student café on the same day as she and Henry Percy had broken things off (she didn't want to wallow, wanted to stay busy so she couldn't get sad, and she could use the extra cash anyway) and been hired on the spot (they were, and are, very under-staffed).

Luckily she knows how to work an espresso machine from the barista job she had in high school. Luckily she knows how to count change quickly from her summer gig as a clerk at an always-busy grocery store.

Unluckily, he somehow manages to always come in when she's working.

And sees her in her _stupid_ uniform (baseball cap, polo shirt, a too-short skirt and closed-toe shoes) in their stupid school colors, forest green and crimson, looking like a goddamn Christmas tree. Not that it matters…it's just an embarrassing outfit in general. It doesn't bother her that he sees her specifically, or anything like that.

He comes in with his entourage: Charles Brandon, Will Compton, and Anthony Knivert.

They're usually laughing, boisterous, always hanging on to his every word.

Henry turns heads but seems not to notice that he does.

He's stupidly generous, she thinks. If anyone in head of him in line is ever short, ever fumbling with their change, ever telling the cashier, "forget the scone, actually, sorry," there _he_ is, opening his wallet with an easy smile and saying, "I've got it, no worries."

But, Anne supposes, it's easy to be generous when your father's richer than God.

He walks in with Lizzy Blount and buys her blueberry muffins. She pushes him playfully, he ruffles her hair.

He shoves money in the tip jar, even more so when Anne's the only one working.

Anne always feels her breath hitch when he comes in. She spills milk, drops napkins when she's trying to reload the dispenser; sometimes she unties her apron even as she's asking her manager to take her five, just to avoid him.

She sees him at the library, the cafeteria, Hugo fountain, walking out of the Erasmus Rose Garden Maze with lipstick smeared by his mouth, leaving the girls' dorms with bleary eyes.

 **November 18, 2016, Friday, 9:12 PM**

So she shouldn't be too surprised when she walks out to the balcony on the 2nd story of the Beta Thau House during the Homecoming After-Party and he's there, sitting against the railing, smoking a cigarette.

She hates smoke (because she started smoking in Paris and it's hard to stand near it when you've quit). It's a good reason not to stand next to him, at any rate.

Anne shuts the sliding glass door behind her and stands there instead.

 _Because_ _ **that's**_ _normal._

 **9:13 PM**

Henry opens his eyes and there's Anne, standing at the door, arms wrapped around herself.

The white sweater she's wearing is about five sizes too big for her. Her skin is rosy, strands of hair framing her face, the rest pulled back.

Opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it.

" _Mamihlapinatapai_ "- for some reason that word's coming to his mind right now.

Oh- he had to write a paper on etymology for his History class this week. On a whim, he had searched "hardest word to translate", and that word had come up. Apparently it meant, "a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other will initiate something which both desire, but which neither one wants to start."

This is a test he doesn't want to fail: who speaks first?

It's not like they weren't just at their table this Tuesday, like she didn't just congratulate him on the 85 on his most recent test and go over every mistake with him…

But this feels different. Like they're both wearing masks and a song is playing just for them. This feels like _that_ night felt. Fragile, electric with potential.

 **9:14 PM**

"I don't bite," Henry quips.

"I'm allergic to smoke," she lies.

"I'm done," he says, dropping the cigarette into his half-empty beer bottle.

Anne decides not to get any closer. But she's tired, and more than a little sad, so she sits down and leans against the exterior of the house. This way she's facing him, and can talk to him, without having to feel his warmth.

"Where's your boyfriend?" he asks, looking over her shoulder as if he expects him to pop out at any moment.

"No idea, since he's not my boyfriend anymore."

"Why not?"

"He took a job that's out of state. It doesn't start till next semester, but…I'm not into delaying the inevitable."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be, it's not like it's your fault."

 **9:15 PM**

 _Kind of._

But Henry hadn't thought about her being hurt, just her being single.

Percy didn't _have_ to say yes to the Red Dragon offer…is Henry _really_ at fault for a decision made of another individual's free will? Just for offering an option to him? His Ethics professor would say no…probably. Maybe?

"Are you going home for the holidays?"

"Thanksgiving, no," she says, messing with the sleeve of her sweater, "December break, yes."

"Why no Thanksgiving?"

"Washington D.C. is too far for those few days…and my dad doesn't 'believe' in American holidays."

"Doesn't believe?"

"He's American, but he thinks he's French."

"And that's why you speak-"

"Yes. He's the US ambassador to France. He used to only speak French in the house, actually, out of stubbornness. Mary and my brother would just ignore him. My mom would get so annoyed with him for that…but I…I wanted to talk to him. So I asked him to teach me, I took some classes for the times when he couldn't teach me, and….I learned."

"Do you miss it?"

"Speaking French?"

"No," he chuckles, "home. Your family."

"I miss my brother, George. But I don't think he'll be invited home, honestly. I'll probably try to meet up with him beforehand."

"Why do you miss him?"

"Because…he wrote to me. Actual letters, back when we were kids and at different summer camps. And then later, when I was in high school and he lived in Europe."

"Letters? As in, pen to paper, put it in an envelope letters?"

"Yes! I miss them. I'm sad I missed the era where people had to make…a real _effort_ to reach you. To say whatever it was they wanted to say, to share their thoughts. I don't know, I guess I miss the excitement of getting one in the mail, miss tearing the envelope. Getting a new text doesn't match it, somehow."

Henry laughs. It's a great, unapologetic, sound, totally lacking self consciousness.

She likes the way he looks at her, she can admit that to herself. When most people look at her it feels like they're only seeing her. When he looks at her she feels like he's reading her.

"Well, I'll be gone for Thanksgiving," he says.

"To the Tudor mansion?" she teases.

"Not enough space in New York City for a mansion. It'll be the Tudor penthouse."

"Ah."

"There's one here, though."

"Of course there is! Why not go there?"

"We go to whichever office will need my father the most. With Black Friday, he told us that's New York. With Christmas, it'll probably be the same."

"I see."

"You look cold."

"I'm fine."

Henry gets up, walks over to her, and takes of his letterman jacket.

"I can't. If I take that you'll be cold too."

"It's worth it. And I have a sweater, I'll be fine," he insists, "take it."

 **9:25 PM**

She does, grateful that he ignored her, and slides it on.

"Sit with me," she offers, patting the floor next to her, figuring it's the least she can do.

He shrugs and does so, back against the wall, just like her. He pulls his knees up, then lets one fall, hand clasped around the other.

"Tell me something," she says.

"Like what?"

"Like…I don't know. I just told you all this personal stuff, I don't why I did, but I did, all this personal stuff about my dad and my obsession with letters."

"Obsession?"

"Yes, obsession, and now you know, and I don't know…much about you at all, really. So tell me something. Something that most people don't know."

"Why?"

"So it's even! So I don't feel weird," she says, knocking her knee against his, teasing.

He's silent, distant in his expression, probably in his thoughts as well, she guesses. She can see the stubble on his face, is close enough that she could trace the line of his jaw, the cupids bow of his mouth (not that she _would_ …why would she?), close enough to smell tobacco, smoke, fire and cinnamon.

"Please? For me?"

"For you?" he smirks.

She nods.

He sighs, shakes his head, wearing a chagrined smile.

"Let's see…"

Henry pulls his pack of Marlboro Lights from his sweater sleeve and starts to tap it against his knee.

"Something most people don't know…"

Henry closes his eyes, fiddles with the top of the pack, flicking the lid open. Closed. Open.

"I have a brother. An older brother. Arthur. I haven't," he takes a sharp breath, "I, I haven't…spoken to him. For quite some time. It's been over four years, I think."

"Henry-"

"Please don't say anything."

His eyes are squeezed shut now, the pack crushed in his hand. Anne doesn't know if she should take it from him. If he doesn't want her to talk, he may not be alright with being touched.

"He was just gone one day. I asked where he was, of course, and so did my sisters. But my father just - didn't explain. He never does, not when it's important, anyway. He'd just say he was gone, that he wasn't part of the family anymore, that he didn't want to be, that it was his choice. We asked and asked, but he wouldn't elaborate. So I guess…they must've had a falling out, yes?"

"I don't know-"

"Why else? I just have a hard time thinking that he'd leave without saying goodbye. _I_ didn't have a falling out with him, so I don't know why…and I still don't know why. Why he left."

"What did your mom do?"

"Nothing. She passed when I was twelve."

"I'm so sorry. I know…I know how hard it is to lose a parent."

"Your mom, too?"

"Yes. I was ten. George was thirteen, Mary eleven. It was...pretty hard on all of us, obviously, but in a weird way it kind of made us closer."

"No, that makes sense- it was the same with my siblings and I. What was her name?"

"Elizabeth."

Henry gives half-hearted laugh, "Sorry…it's just…that was mine, as well."

"Oh. Wow, that's…something."

She can't think of anything else to say. Suddenly she feels like they're uncomfortably close. The sweep of his lashes against his cheek when he closes his eyes is almost too beautiful for to bear. She can't look at it, anymore, so she doesn't. She scoots farther away from him, puts a few inches of distance between, them, and somehow that makes all the difference.

"Well, you won't be smoking for a while," she quips.

"What?"

She gestures to the mangled cardboard pack, the gold on it still glinting from in between his fingers. He hasn't let go of it yet.

"Oh. Yeah," he says, uncurling his fingers from the pack, "those are toast."

"Please don't tell anyone," he begs, "I really can't-"

"I wouldn't-"

"Ok. I'm…I wish-"

Henry's interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open, and then hears a familiar voice: "Tudor! Get your ass back-"

Will Compton stops in the middle of his sentence.

"Boleyn-what are _you_ doing here?"

"Will," Henry says in a warning tone.

"What?"

"That was rude."

"It's fine," Anne says, getting up, "I'm-"

"No, it's not fine. I don't care how drunk he is. Apologize."

"Sorry," he says sheepishly, "I just…ah…surprised to see you out here! With…him."

"Why?" she asks.

"Aren't you with Per-"

"No."

"Oh. Well, then, carry on-"

"We were just talking. I'm going to go check on my sister," she says, to Henry, "see you later."

"Are you going to be here Saturday?" Henry asks.

"Yeah," she says, "I am."

"Okay. See you then."

"I'll be here, too!" Will calls out as she leaves, taking a swig of his beer, muttering, "not that it matters."

"Nice," Henry says, getting up.

"Didn't mean to interrupt-"

"You didn't interrupt anything. Do you have a smoke?"

Will pats around his jeans, then hands him his pack. He gets the one that he had tucked behind his ear and lights it.

"So…" he says, watching as his friend lights up, "nothing go on there?"

"Nope."

"So, you wouldn't mind if-"

"You're not asking her out."

"But I thought-"

" _No_."

"Noted."

 **November 18, 2016, Friday, 11:13 PM**

Anne hasn't been able to find Mary anywhere downstairs, so she walks back upstairs to her door and knocks.

"Mary?" she calls, "are you in there? I need to talk to you."

She puts her ear to the door and hears music. Maybe she's just putting makeup on (Mary _always_ has music on when she does her makeup, even when she's just doing at touch up): " _stealing kisses from your misses/doesn't make you freak out…_ "

"Hello? Mary?"

Normally Anne would be more respectful of boundaries, but she is…feeling strange, she doesn't understand anything that's been happening to her lately, and she just really needs to talk to her sister right now. So she tests the doorknob and it's unlocked. Maybe Mary just can't hear her? She _is_ playing the music pretty loudly.

Anne opens the door, and Mary is there. She's in bed ( _is she sick?_ ), under the covers, her eyes closed, face slightly shiny with sweat, mouth open and Anne sees…her feet peeking out from the comforter?

But that doesn't make sense. Because if those were her feet, she would be seeing the top of them. And she sees the back of them. The bottoms of a pair of Converse, actually. The toes facing the wall.

 _tell the neighbors i'm not sorry/if i'm breaking walls down_

And there's a lump in the middle of the bed. That is…definitely _not_ Mary.

 _building your girl's second story/ripping all your floors out_

The lump's feet kick, and the comforter falls, leaving only a sheet. Mary's eyes flutter open languidly-until she sees Anne, that is.

 _saw your face/heard your name/gotta get with you_

"Close the door!" Mary yells, panicked, tugging the sheet up to cover more of herself-

 _girls like girls like boys do_

-which only exposes the person under the sheet.

Exposes the curly, blonde head of none other than Lizzy Blount.

 _nothing new._


	11. Chapter 11

Anne shuts the door behind her, stunned.

"I-"

"Jesus!" Mary snaps, unplugging the mini speakers near her desk, "don't you knock?"

"I did. The door wasn't locked, there wasn't," she stammers, looking at her feet, "a hair tie on the doorknob or anything, I didn't know…"

Lizzy is just sitting on the foot of the bed, crossed legged, mouth shiny. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she's intent on a hangnail, picking away.

"I'll-go," Anne offers, "I'm sorry-"

"Well the mood's kind of killed now," Mary says, crossing her arms, "so you might as well stay."

"I don't understand…are you…gay?"

" _I'm_ not gay," Lizzy says, chewing on the end of her hair.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not gay," she says, "I'm not really sure what I am. But you shouldn't, like, make assumptions."

"Oh. I mean, I wasn't really talking to you, but-yeah," Anne says, nodding, rubbing her temples, "yeah, no I shouldn't assume anything. I mean- I only just walked in on you going down on my _sister,_ to a song called-what was it?"

"I don't know," Mary says, "she put it on."

"'Girls Like Girls,'" Lizzy answers, twirling a strand of hair around her finger now, "I don't-"

"Right. So I just walked in on you going down on my sister, to a song called 'Girls Like Girls', which seems pretty GAY to me!"

" _Anne_ ," Mary warns.

"But what do I know," she continues, "you know, you're right, shame on _me_ for absolutely _leaping_ to conclusions there!"

"Okay," Lizzy says slowly, "I know you're like, confused or surprised or whatever, but you're being kind of hostile right now and I don't appreciate it."

"I'm sorry, I can't take you seriously when you can't bother to wipe your mouth!"

Lizzy wipes her mouth on the back of her flannel sleeve self-consciously.

"I think I'm gonna go," Lizzy says, "leave you guys to…whatever."

"I'll see you," Mary says, "I'm sorry."

The other blonde leans her head against the door and says, "It's just not very chill, you know?" before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

"Apparently it's not very ' _chill_ '," Anne mocks.

" _Nice_ ," Mary says, throwing the sheet off.

"Warn me, God!" Anne snaps, covering her eyes.

"Real mature," Mary continues, "I _was_ wearing a skirt."

"Oh."

"Just not underwear," she snaps, bundling the sheet and throwing it at Anne.

"Okay, don't _throw_ things at me-"

"I'll throw whatever I want at you! Why were you such an asshole, huh?"

"I'm just- I can't believe you didn't tell me."

Mary's dark blonde hair is mussed, a chunk of it stuck to her cheek. Her face is flushed, she's flushed all the way down to her chest, making a red trail down and over her black, lacy bra. She puts her hands on her hips, chest heaving, eyes tearing up.

"Tell you _what_?"

"That you're-"

"Gay?"

"Are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! How long have you-"

"I figured it out pretty recently. But you're right, I didn't tell you. And you should know _why_."

Mary goes over to the comforter that fell on the floor and throws it over her bed.

"I don't know why. I'm a pretty accepting person-"

"Yeah, right."

"I've always been pro-gay marriage, pro gay rights, I've told you as much-"

"You're _really_ fucking judgmental."

" _What_ are you talking about?"

Anne's older sister scoffs, goes over to her dresser, pulls out a drawer, pulls out a shirt, and slams it shut.

"I'm not judgmental!"

"You so are!" Mary insists, pulling a white tee shirt over her head.

"Name _one_ time-"

"George."

Anne's mouth drops open.

"I had _every_ reason to judge George," she hisses, " _he's_ the reason-"

"No, he's NOT!" Mary shouts.

"George spent everything dad gave him for college to go be a bohemian fuckhead in Europe! When he got sick of Europe- probably borrowed money from everyone there- and eventually went back to school, he didn't even finish his fucking associate's!"

"George was eighteen and stupid-"

" _I'm_ eighteen and I would _never_ be so stupid! That's not an excuse!"

"Well, sometimes people are stupid, Anne. We can't all be _perfect_ -"

"That's not _fair_ -"

"-like _you_ , can we?"

"Why are you being like this?"

"George doesn't owe dad anything."

"Like _hell_ he doesn't! George sure as hell owes _me_ something, at least!"

"Anne-"

" _HE_ is the reason I had to get scholarship! When our dad makes 100k a year! He is the reason I- no, he is the reason _we_ have to bust our asses to make it through, caught between two fucking dead zone worlds, _not_ eligible for financial aid and getting NO goddamn help from our parents, either-"

"Well, Mom's _dead_ , so-"

"I know mom's fucking dead! You think I don't know that?!"

"You said parents. And mom probably would've helped-"

"You know what I mean! I can't believe you don't think how we have to struggle isn't George's-"

"That is DAD's fault! That is _dad's_ decision! It might have been because of what happened with George but it is NOT! HIS! FUCKING! FAULT!" Mary shouts, tears sliding down her face.

Anne is speechless. She has never seen Mary lose her cool like this. She's never spoken to her in this way- actually, Anne's never seen her speak to _anyone_ this way.

"Sorry your head's too far up your ass to see it," Mary continues( _and apparently she's not done_ , Anne thinks), at a lower volume now but with the same level of intensity as before, "sorry all you see is Saint fucking Thomas because you're the _favorite_ but you have to see that there is only one person to blame for this! And it's not you and it's not me and it's not George-it's DAD!"

Mary collapses on her bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed, sniffling. The tears trickle down her cheekbones, drop onto her pillow in tiny circles.

Anne feels like the worst person ever. She can't believe she just made her sister cry. She goes over to the dresser, grabs a box of tissues, and hands it to Mary. Mary snatches it from her and uses one to wipe the mascara that's trickling down her face.

"What did you mean when you said he doesn't owe dad anything?"

"There's just stuff about dad you don't know, ok?" she says.

"Like what?"

"Like…how he brought in a priest, for George."

"For George?"

"Yeah," Mary says, sitting up and moving the pillow behind her, against the headboard, "and he made me be there."

"Be there for what?"

"Be there for the priest telling George he was going to go to hell," she says, throwing the crumpled tissue on her nightstand, "if he kept kissing boys."

"What?"

"Yeah…our dad's swell, huh? He's only an Easter and Christmas Catholic, never goes to church otherwise…only sent us to Catholic school for the 'superior education', but he sure is righteous about _certain_ things!"

"I didn't-"

"Know? Of course you didn't. Dad wouldn't have wanted you to…be there for that."

"When was this? Mom wouldn't have-"

"No, she wouldn't have. He was fourteen."

"Mary, I'm so sorry, I-"

"You know what, Anne? I don't really want to hear about how you're sorry. Because you weren't there."

"Mary-"

"And you're so offended," she continues, "that I didn't _tell_ you right away. But how do you think I would let _anyone_ know- including myself-that _I_ wanted to kiss _girls_? After having to be there for that…"

"You're right, I'm sorry-"

"I think you should go," Mary says, moving so that she's sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from Anne.

"Mary-"

"Please leave."

Mary keeps her eyes trained the on desk against the wall. There's a picture in a frame set up there, of Anne and her in their school uniforms, giving each other bunny ears.

She's not turning around.

She keeps looking at the picture, even as she hears the door shut behind her.

 **November 18, 2016, Friday, 10:35 PM**

"-and he still won't tell me, to this day, who the girl in his bed was!" Brandon says, elbowing Henry.

"You're obsessed," Henry says, swatting him away.

"I think it's sweet," Anthony teases, putting his feet up on the coffee table, "he didn't want to wake her up…maybe she's his secret girlfriend."

"That's what _I_ said," Brandon says.

"Maybe I'm just not an asshole, like _some_ people I could mention," Henry says to chorusing "Oooohs!"

"Hey, isn't that-what's her name?" Will snaps his fingers, drumming his other hand against his beer bottle, "the Boleyn girl-"

"Mary?" asks Anthony, "no, haven't seen-"

Jen Parker comes over and takes the beer bottle from his hands.

"Hey!" he exclaims.

"Take your feet off the table or I'm cutting them off," she snaps, sauntering away.

"Christ," Anthony grumbles, "what a bitch."

"Nice ass, though," Brandon comments, watching her as she goes up the stairs.

Henry's arm is around Will's shoulder. Brandon sees Henry him whisper something to him, then watches him shoot up and say, "be right back."

"Where are you going?" Brandon asks.

"Nowhere."

Brandon follows where Will's looking and sees Anne Boleyn, standing by the front door, taking her coat off the hook and crying.

"Someone had a bit too much," Anthony comments.

Tom Wyatt, who's been sitting at the armchair next to the right of the door (Boleyn's on the side of the door next to the staircase, Wyatt's on the other side), surrounded by girls and playing guitar, sets his guitar down and walks over to her, puts his hand on the small of her back.

"Nothing! It's nothing, I'm fine-" he hears Boleyn say, and then he can make out, "C'mon, let me get you a tea or something…"

"I have to go, _now_ , I don't want to be here anymore, your guitar's over there anyway, just forget-

"Fuck the guitar, no one's gonna steal it, c'mon, let's get out of here."

Henry, Brandon notices, who was in such a rush not seconds ago, stands still. The only thing he's done so far is take two steps to the front door.

Wyatt and Boleyn leave together, and Henry walks back to the couch, sits down next to Brandon.

"What was that about?" Brandon asks.

He sees his best friend's jaw clench from his profile.

"I thought I had to go to the bathroom," he says, "and then I didn't."

"Christ, Tudor," Will says, laughing, "how drunk _are_ you?"

"Not enough," Henry says.

"Well, here," Anthony says, pulling out a flask from inside his jacket, "this should help with that."

"You know they already have booze at parties, right," Will asks, "it's a little white trash to bring-"

"Shut up, Compton," Anthony says, "they don't have the hard stuff at these girly fucking parties."

"It's-"

Henry drinks. And drinks. And _drinks_.

"…tequila," he finishes, wide-eyed, as Henry passes it back to him without so much as a cough.

 **November 18, 2016, Friday, 11:11 PM**

The mint tea Tom bought her is cold now, Anne notes as she takes a small sip. This is the first time she's touched it.

They're sitting at a round table at Crave café, a coffeehouse about three blocks from campus that's open till 2 AM on Fridays and weekends.

"I'm sure she'll forgive you," he says easily.

"What?" she asks.

"You said…you and Mary fought?"

"Oh. I don't remember telling you."

"Well, you told me like five minutes ago. And you've been staring into that cup since. I thought maybe you were trying to read the tea leaves, but to do that you'd have to actually drink it."

"Sorry…I just…this has never happened before. I'm kind of in shock, I guess."

"You've never fought?" he asks incredulously, sipping his Coke.

"Not really."

"You're sisters, you must have fought before."

"Little squabbles," she says with a shrug, "nothing like this. This was…a big one."

"You'll work it out," he reassures.

"Maybe."

"Definitely. You two are fiercely protective of each other, for as long as I've known you guys, anyway. So you must love each other fiercely, too."

"You're so poetic," she says, "did you know that?"

"Well, I am a poet."

"Right."

He smiles, gives a mini-bow from his seat, and she laughs.

"Hey, Tom?"

"Yes?"

"I have a question."

"I have an answer."

"Were you ever interested in Mary? Back in high school?"

"Well…I was interested in her sister, if you remember," he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, "so no, not really."

"Right…but…like, if I hadn't been there," she says, folding her hands together, "being charming and magnetic and such…"

"Modest!"

"Not one of my virtues. But seriously…she's _really_ pretty."

"I know."

"Like, prettier than me, most people would say."

"Oh, I don't think-"

"I don't take Eurocentric Western Beauty standards personally," she says with a wave of her hand, "objectively she's more attractive, by them and I know it. It doesn't bother me anymore."

"Anne-"

"Tom. In all seriousness. In all _honesty_. If I hadn't been there, say…would you have been interested in her?"

"I don't-"

"Just think about it. Take your time, if you need to," she says, drinking her tea.

"I guess," he laughs, "such a weird question…but, no. Still no."

"Why, though?"

"I don't know…it's hard to explain."

"Try."

"Well, it's not like she's a particularly cold person. She's pretty warm, actually. But still…I know she dated guys, but she never really seemed… _into_ anyone. So personally, I wouldn't want to risk getting involved, because…I don't want to date anyone that's never going to be into me."

"You're right."

"Thanks?"

"Tom," she says, laughing, "I can't explain to you why that makes me happy right now, but…it does."

"It does?"

"It does. Because it makes sense to me now…she was never really _into_ anyone. That she dated."

"Right."

"She wasn't promiscuous…she just wasn't," Anne ponders a more ambiguous way to get her point across, not wanting to out her sister, "ah…dating the right _kind_ of person. So of course she didn't get attached. She probably…just thought she hadn't found the right person yet, so kept trying, but it was futile. Of course."

"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"No, never mind. Don't worry about it. But I feel better now. Thanks."

"Any time."

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

 **To: Mary Boleyn**

 **Sent November 19, 2016, Saturday, 1:13 AM**

Again, I'm really, REALLY sorry.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

 **To: Mary Boleyn**

 **Sent November 19, 2016, Saturday, 9:45 AM**

I know you're still mad at me but Anna wants me to go with her to the party today still. She says she won't know anyone there.

Well, she'll you know of course but I think she's just feeling kind of nervous…she doesn't usually go to parties.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:50 AM**

It's fine. I already invited you.

 **From: Anne**

I know, but I won't go if you don't want me there.

 **From: Mary**

I don't care. Do what you want.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:30 AM**

Hey babe- want me to help pick you out an outfit?

 **From: Anna Seville**

No…I do know how to dress myself, you know.

 **From: Mary**

Ok, just offering. You can use my room, btw.

 **From: Anna**

Wow. Really?

 **From: Mary**

Yup. If you use it just wash the sheets by tomorrow morning. I changed them for you.

 **From: Anna**

Ok…you sure?

 **From: Mary**

I'm crashing in a friend's room tonight. Don't worry about it.


	12. Chapter 12

**From: Henry Tudor**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 8:35 PM**

Hey.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Hi.

 **From: Henry Tudor**

What, does your verbosity disappear when texting?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

'Verbosity', wow. Someone's been studying.

And I replied with the same amount of word(s) as you sent, so excuse you.

 **From: Henry Tudor**

Finals, hello.

And I know big words. Maybe I just don't try to show off with them all the time, unlike some people I could mention…

 **From: Anne**

Wow!

 **From: Henry**

/shrug/

 **From: Henry**

 **Sent November 19, 2016, Saturday, 8:45 PM**

Just teasing. Genuinely enjoy your big words. Very educational.

 **From: Anne**

Why, thank you.

 **From: Henry**

You still going to the Beta Thau party tonight?

 **From: Anne**

Yes, why?

 **From: Henry**

No reason. See you there.

 **From: Anne**

Guess you will.

"How do I look?" Anna asks, spinning around from her mirror to face Anne, who's sitting at the edge of her bed, texting and smiling at her phone.

"Fine," Anne says.

"Fine?!"

Anne says "turn around", and Anna does. She can feel Anne pull her hair from its ponytail and run her fingers through it, mussing it up.

"Let me get you some pomade," she says, opening her desk drawer.

"I look like I just woke up," Anna scoffs, checking out her reflection.

"Kind of the point," Anne says, coming up behind her, hair product in hand, scooping a bit of it out and smoothing it over Anna's hair.

"I don't wear my hair down."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Well, you want to feel comfortable…comfort equals confidence. Here," Anne says, taking her own hair down, looping her tie with the one she took from Anna and handing it to her roommate, "put it in two braids, loosely. That way it's at least around your face, and you don't get that tight, pulled-back look you get with a ponytail."

"Thanks, " she says, separating her hair into sections, "I don't know anything about this stuff."

"You always look cute," Anne says, sitting on the edge of her bed again and pulling on her knee-high boots.

"Cute, but not hot."

"Well, let's fix that," Anne says, taking of her shirt and tossing it to Anna, "this should take care of it."

Anna catches it, drops it on her vanity, takes her tank top off and puts Anne's shirt on.

It's a scoop neck, and Anna can see that it goes _well_ below her clavicle.

"This is…a lot of boobage."

"Exactly."

"Okay," she sighs, checking the mirror again, squinting at herself, "if you don't think it's too much…what will you wear, though?"

"Turtleneck," Anne says with a shrug, opening one of her drawers and rummaging through.

"Again? What's with you and those?"

"It's weird, I know," Anne admits, picking out a long-sleeved, royal blue turtleneck and pulling it on over head, "but whenever my neck's exposed I always get, like…these chills."

"That _is_ weird."

"I guess I just get cold easily, and my neck is more sensitive? I don't know."

"Which jacket?" Anna asks, holding out two options.

"Leather, definitely."

"Thanks for doing this," Anna says, pulling the jacket on, "I really needed to blow off some steam."

"No problem," Anne says easily, "and you'll have fun. Jen may be kind of uptight, but she _does_ throw a good party."

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 9:49 PM**

"All I'm saying is that they really put the 'white' in Whitehall here," Brandon says with shrug, finishing off his beer and putting the bottle down on the coffee table.

He, Henry, Richard Buckingham, Anthony Knivert, Will Compton, and Francis Valois are all standing in a circle. They started out with a ranking of the hottest girls on campus (Henry was strangely quiet on that front, Brandon noted, even though he's usually pretty vocal about these matters), went to which classes would probably have the hardest finals, and somehow they had ended up here.

Brandon can't help but be defensive on this front. He's on an athletic scholarship, but his mom is Mexican, his absentee father Caucasian. His happiness at acceptance here was somewhat shadowed by his inkling that his checkmark in the ethnicity box probably had something to do with it. He's passing, so he's never told anyone. Henry is the only one at Whitehall that knows (besides admissions, of course). 

"What are you talking about?" Buckingham scoffs.

"Exactly what I said, man."

"What, you think we should go back to affirmative action?"

"Would that be the worst thing in the world?" Henry jumps in.

"Yeah. Affirmative action's stupid."

"Is it?"

Their heads turn to the asker, Anne Boleyn.

Her head is tilted to the side, eyes bright.

Brandon can't help but admit to himself that she looks pretty hot. She has yet another turtleneck on ( _maybe she has Amish inclinations_ , he thinks wryly), but it's well fitted and it's tucked into a high waisted skirt, showing off her waist. Her legs are encased in black and white lacy tights. Her hair's down (a rarity), shiny and in waves, and she has the whole smoky eye thing going on. Her glossy mouth is twisted into a smirk.

"Boleyn," Buckingham acknowledges.

"Buckingham," she says, gesturing with her mug (it's steaming, Brandon notices- is she really drinking fucking tea at a party?), "is this a debate? Because I _love_ debate."

"We're just talking," Buckingham says, turning back to the group.

" _You're_ just talking," Henry corrects, moving a bit to the side to make room for her in the circle, and winking at her, "and I'm getting bored."

"Whatever," Buckingham says with an eye roll.

"Do you have any basis or evidence behind your position," Anne inquires, taking a careful sip of her drink, "or is it just your _feelings_?"

"'Course I have basis. Affirmative action's based on nothing but race and gender. Why should someone get an edge over other applicants for some arbitrary reason?"

"I mean, it's implemented to promote diversity. But I'll play devil's advocate with you for a moment- you think affirmative action is stupid because it allows applicants to get an edge over others for something not based on talents, grades, etc?"

"Pretty much."

"Tell me, then- what do you think about students that are legacies?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Students with an edge over others just because their parents and grandparents went to the same school they're applying to? Is that not also- arbitrary?"

"You can't give me an example of that," he says, laughing, "it's just something scholarship students make up to make themselves feel better."

"Can't give you an example?" she says, also laughing, "I think I'm standing with a few."

"You can't prove it," he snaps, face turning red.

"Fair enough. What about George Bush, then?"

"What about him?"

"Well, I don't know what his high school GPA was. But he got into Yale, and his GPA there, was…2.3, I believe?"

"2.35," Will corrects, holding his phone out, "according to Wikipedia. Impressively close."

"Thank you," she says sweetly, "so 2.35…and somehow, with _that_ GPA, he managed to get into Harvard Business School. Why do you think that was? Because I can't think of any reason other than his _name_. Rather than his merits."

"It's not the same."

"How?"

"Well you're obviously-just prejudiced against legacy students," he sputters.

"That would be difficult," she says, smirking, "considering that I am one."

"What?"

"My father went here."

"Bull."

"You can look that up on your phone too, Compton. Thomas Boleyn."

Will nods, does so, and pulls up the page in a matter of seconds, passing it to Buckingham.

"She's right," he says, watching as Buckingham reads.

"Well-"

"Aw," she coos, " _nice_ try, though," before walking away from the circle, a decidedly confident sway in her gait as she does so.

"Fuck," Anthony says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sliding one behind his ear, "I just witnessed a massacre."

"You just got _dragged_ ," Valois says, slapping Buckingham on his back, "by a girl, no less!"

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps, flustered, "not my fault she's jealous of people that can actually _afford_ college."

"And people that can afford it are, what, better than those that can't?" Brandon snaps.

"We all have to pay somehow," Will says diplomatically, "whether the school gives us the money, whether it's a loan, whether it's our parents…it's all money. Relax."

"Consolation smoke?" Anthony offers.

"I don't need to be _consoled_ -"

"Okay, Buckingham, _regular_ smoke?" he offers.

"Fine, whatever."

"Tudor?"

"Sure."

They go upstairs to the balcony. Valois says he's going to go get a drink, asks the remaining few if they want anything. They decline.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:11 PM**

Anne's rinsing her coffee mug in the sink, trying to come up with a game plan for how to deal with this whole fight.

Anna glommed on to Mary pretty early on in this party. Mary has not talked, waved, or so much as looked at her sister yet.

So she knows she's _really_ hurt, because her older sister doesn't ice people out. Even when she's really, really upset with someone. Anne once borrowed her white Calvin Klein dress without asking and ended up getting red wine spilled on it (some guy at a bar she snuck in was _so_ eager to talk to her and _so_ tipsy that when he leaned over to ask for her number he ended up dropping the glass). Mary cried, Anne apologized profusely, and she _still_ bought coffee for her the next morning (though she made Anne pay her back for it, of course).

It's going to take some kind of gesture for sure. She just doesn't know what yet.

" _You're_ fiery."

Anne ignores Valois pointedly, going over to the pot of coffee Jen always has out (to sober people up later on, but Anne doesn't drink, so she's pretty much the only one that has any early in the night) and refilling her cup.

"You can't just ignore me. That's rude."

"You're a little _beyond_ rude," she remarks, entering the security code for the fridge and pulling out the milk, "so I feel it's justified."

"I'm allowed to come in here for a drink, same as you."

"That you are," she says spiritedly, nodding to herself as she pours milk in her coffee, "so go ahead."

He shrugs, goes over to the cooler on the island and pulls out a beer.

"You look hot tonight."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"I am a thousand percent serious," he says, using the counter to pop the cap on his beer off.

"Jen has cameras in here, I wouldn't use that-"

The cap pops off and Valois lets it fall to the ground.

"Never mind…you _do_ remember I pushed you into a fountain, right?"

"Sexual tension can make us do crazy things. I forgive you."

"Uh huh. And do you recall _why_ I did that?"

"Not really."

"Mary Boleyn? My sister?"

"Oh. Well, Tudor likes you, so-"

"What?!"

"Tudor likes you," he repeats, "and you don't seem to mind, so…I thought you didn't mind the whole previously-banged-your sister concept."

"Lovely. And he doesn't _like_ me," she insists, using her hand to cup her neck, resting her chin against it, "he flirts with everyone, it's not-"

"Not like he does with you."

"You're crazy."

"For you."

"Unbelievable."

"That's what girls usually say."

"I don't think they mean it in quite the way you think you do. But actually," she says, cringing as he walks closer to her, "as unappealing as the whole 'banged-my-sister concept' _is_ , I was talking about the rumors."

"Oh…that. Well. I _might_ have done that, but someone else gave me the idea."

"What are you talking about?"

"Brandon said he saw Tudor hand her cash after she slept over. I kind of just ran with that," he says.

"What?"

"Let's get out of here," he says, holding her arm.

"Get the fuck away from me."

"I don't think so."

"Stop-"

"What's going on here?" Henry asks, standing in the doorway.

" _Someone_ ," she says, trying to wrench her arm from Valois' tight grip, "seems to think the caveman approach is effective."

"Let _go_ of her," Henry demands, voice like ice.

"I will when she asks nicely," Valois says, laughing, "you don't get dibs on _both_ of the Boleyn girls, Tudor. Sorry."

Henry smiles and laughs, "Oh…oh, _no_. You're letting go of her NOW." 

"And what if I don't?" Valois asks, mocking.

"You know," Henry says, slamming his beer bottle on the island, "I _really_ don't want to hurt you."

"Why?" he asks, in the same mocking tone.

Henry is now inches from both of them, in front of the sink.

"Because I don't think you'd survive."

"Please, give me a break-"

Anne uses this testosterone-fueled interaction as a distraction, as an opportunity to jump on to the edge of the sink (previous experience has taught her the distance she needed to achieve this well enough that she gauges it perfectly) out of Valois' grip on her arm. She kicks him, swiftly, right across the stomach, grazing Henry as she does so. He only stumbles a little bit, so she also pushes her foot forcefully into his groin.

He groans in pain and she jumps down, yelling, "Getting _real_ tired of your shit, Valois," as she storms out of the kitchen.

"Your shoe?" she hears Henry call out behind her.

He catches up to her and hands her the sole of one of her shoes. It must've fallen off …apparently the force of the kick was too much for their five years of use.

"You know what?" she says, eyes bright and frenzied, grabbing the sole from Henry, zipping her boot and shucking it off, "I'm settling this once and for all."

She turns to face the room. The music's blasting, so she assumes no one heard the commotion from the kitchen, and everyone is mingling and definitely not noticing her standing there holding one boot with quiet determination.

"Excuse me!" Anne shouts, "excuse me, everyone!"

Mary, sitting on the couch with Anna, looks up from their conversation and quirks and eyebrow at her.

She turns around and unplugs the speakers from the wall.

"Anne," Jen says shrilly, looking up from where she's holding court, encircle dby Beta Thau Sisters and various fraternity brothers, " _what_ is your damage?"

"I have an announcement," she says, "it'll only be a second."

Everyone stops talking and looks at her, expressions ranging from bemused to incredulous to expectant.

Anne holds up her boot in one hand and the broken off sole in the other.

"My sister is NOT a prostitute," she announces, "if she were, she would buy me better shoes."

Mary laughs and puts her hand over her mouth, shaking her head.

"This isn't a sounding board," Jen snaps, "it's a party."

"I'm done, that's all," Anne says, plugging the speakers back in, "carry on."

"Anne-"

Anne turns around to see Henry behind her laughing.

"Toss this for me, will you?" she asks, handing him her broken shoe.

"What…why?" he asks, but takes them anyway.

"Think I should go," she says, "don't think Jen wants me here anymore."

"I'll tell her what happened. You know she'll kick Valois out, right?"

She shrugs.

"Do whatever you want," she says.

"You're walking back like that?" he asks, gesturing to her feet.

"Sure am," she says.

"Wait-"

But she's already opening the front door and walking out of the house, down the steps of the front porch and onto the damp grass.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:24 PM**

She lets the cool night air fill her lungs, taking deep breaths.

"Anne!"

She turns around and sees her older sister on the porch of the Beta Thau house.

Anne waits, standing still as Mary walks over to her.

"Come back inside," Mary says.

"I'm going back to my dorm."

"Don't. I want you here."

"I'll still need to walk over, to pick out another pair of shoes."

"Then I'll walk with you," Mary says, "and then we can talk."

"I'd like that."


	13. Chapter 13

**November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:30 PM**

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Mary says quietly.

Anne felt unbalanced earlier, so she took her other shoe off and is carrying it. She's sure the feet of her tights will be grass-stained by the time they reach her dorm, but she doesn't care. It was _totally_ worth it.

"I'll always defend your honor. Even when you don't want me to."

"I'm sorry," Mary says, "for yelling at you, for dumping all that on you-"

"Don't apologize, I'm the one that should be sorry," Anne says, hurriedly, "I was really immature about the whole thing."

"Just _maybe_ wait for me to answer the door next time you drop by unannounced," she says wryly.

"I will, I know it was totally my fault. I was mainly just surprised, I didn't mean to be such a jackass."

"You're usually not. It was almost-refreshing?"

"I _hate_ fighting with you."

"I hate fighting with _you_."

"I really had no idea that happened with George, he never told me-"

"It's okay. It's not your fault that you didn't know."

"Thanks."

"Are you still, like…" Mary searches for the right word, puts her hands in her pockets, "in shock?"

"Not really. I mean, at first it didn't make a lot of sense to me. But I thought about it, and the more I thought the more…it makes sense."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess I mean…I don't know. You've dated a…few guys."

"I've dated a _lot_ of guys," Mary corrects, "believe me, I know. You don't need to spare my feelings."

"Not _that_ many," Anne says with a shrug.

"Yes, that many. I know no one's going to take me seriously about being a lesbian, for that reason, but-"

" _I_ do," Anne says emphatically.

"Thanks. I just know dad won't, especially, so I'm not telling him, so please don't-"

"I won't, I promise."

"What did you mean," Mary asks, waiting for Anne to swipe her key card to the front entrance, "that it makes sense?"

"Well, none of your relationships lasted very long. And you were never upset when they ended," Anne explains.

Anne had, actually, always wondered about that last point. Mary was so blasé after her break-ups that a young Anne thought this was normal, thought that TV shows, movies, and books merely exaggerated how deeply women were affected by break-ups, that the anguish was embellishment, thought that they were, all in all, no big deal.

When, in the seventh grade, she came over to a friend's house and found said friend sobbing, eating ice cream and blasting Alanis Morissette after being dumped, Anne was shocked.

"No, I wasn't," she says with a giggle, waiting for Anne to unlock the door to her dorm.

"And _all_ those hours spent watching Britney Spears music videos…"

"Stooop!" Mary groans.

Mary closes the door behind her and sits on the floor next to it.

Anne's glad she's tested the waters to see if teasing was alright. Seeing that Mary's smiling, she begins to tease in earnest.

"All this time, I thought you paid so much attention so that you could copy the dance routines…only to find out their were _ulterior motives_."

"You're terrible!"

"Oh," Anne says as she shoves the leg of her boot behind her bed frame, "and I'm sorry I swooped in on your crush!"

" _And_ incorrigible."

"Nice usage."

"Missed that question on my second SAT. Never forgot it."

"Though to be fair," Anne says, taking a seat next to her sister, "you _did_ tell me to kiss her."

"I did at that."

Anne takes her hand in hers, and says, in a more serious tone than before, "I hope I didn't screw things up for you…with her."

"You didn't."

"I _am_ sorry."

"I know."

"So… are we good?"

"Yeah," Mary says softly, nodding, "we're good."

Anne puts her head on Mary's shoulder and sighs.

"So… you like her?"

"I like her a lot. I thought we were flirting, during this past week, but I couldn't tell…if she meant it. It's _so_ hard to tell with girls."

"So I've heard," Anne says in mock solemnity.

"Shut up," Mary says, laughter in her voice.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:48 PM**

Tom is chewing on a pen, class work in hand, when he feels someone sitting on the couch next to him.

"It's Wyatt, right?"

Tom lifts his head from the music sheets to see Henry Tudor.

He's wearing a letterman jacket, and looks quite the quintessential American jock.

"That's me," he says, circling a measure.

"You're the lead singer of…what are you guys called?"

"The Bright Beams," he answers.

"I like you guys. Some of those are originals, yeah?"

"Yes. We play originals and covers."

"Who writes them?"

"That'd be me, again."

"Really? They're very good."

"Well, thanks very much," Tom says, "that means a lot."

"You're welcome."

"I like…well, I don't really go to games much," Tom admits, "but I hear you're our best quarterback."

"Mm. Thanks for passing that along," he says politely.

Tom has seen Tudor from a distance, sure, but he doesn't thing he's ever spoken to him directly. He's usually had a girl on his arm, or is surrounded by some of the more popular guys on campus. He's seen him in the midst of raucous laughter, he's seen him walk in to lectures half an hour late with aviators on that he keeps on during the duration, seen him high five and clap his friends on the back…but he's never seen him _subdued_.

It's a little disarming, actually.

"So," Tudor says, "you know Boleyn, right?"

"Ah…I know all the Boleyns, actually. Even the ones that don't go to Whitehall."

"You know the family? Personally?"

"Sort of," he says, confused, "I mean, I've been to their house…we went to the same high school. We were all friends."

"Wow. Small world."

"Yeah…"

"Did you date her?" he asks abruptly.

"Who?"

"The one you were with last night? The brunette? I don't really remember her name," he says sheepishly.

"Anne?"

"I think so."

Tom has a feeling that there's a right and a wrong answer to this question. The intensity in his blue eyes scares him a little, though his smile is relaxed, even affable.

"No, never. I had a bit of her crush on her, I guess, but every guy at our school did. She's quite-"

"Beautiful?"

"Yes. It was hard not to. But I had a girlfriend. I still have the same one, and childhood crushes are just-"

"Childish?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Tudor!"

Brandon puts a hand on Tudor's shoulder and says, "This party sucks, let's go."

Tom gives him a wave but Brandon ignores him.

"Nice talking to you," Tudor says with a nod.

Brandon looks at Tom pointedly and Tom rolls his eyes but gets up. He'll go to the piano instead, there will be more space and privacy to look over his work there, anyway.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:58 PM**

"I heard there's going to be beer pong soon," Henry says, "you never want to miss that."

"Every party has beer pong," Brandon whines, " _this_ party doesn't have any girls I want. And they're playing Selena Gomez. We need to hit another sorority house."

Henry looks at the door, then back to Brandon.

"Yeah, okay," he says with a sigh, "let's go."

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 10:59 PM**

The door swings open and Mary and Anne Boleyn walk in, laughing together. They take off their coats and put them on the rack.

"Coming?" Brandon asks.

"No. You can go, though. If you want."

"What changed your mind?"

"Nothing," Henry says, smiling, "nothing at all."

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:01 PM**

Anne opens the sliding glass door to the backyard and sees the back of her friend's head. She taps her on the shoulder. Anna turns around and scowls.

"Thanks for ditching me," Anna snaps.

"I'm sorry," Anne says, taking a seat next to her on the lawn chair, "Mary and I were kind of fighting, but we made up."

"Well, no one told _me_."

"I didn't want to put you in the middle of it," Anne says, pouting.

"Okay, fine. You just left me to deal with the Brady Bunch Blondes-" 

" _You're_ blonde," Anne points out.

"I'm not bottle blonde."

"And that makes a difference?"

"And I had to try this girl's Tiki Death Punch Splenda drink out of politeness, and somehow got stuck listening to a _thrilling_ debate on whether 'drunkorexic' was the way to go on getting buzzed faster at parties-"

"On what?"

"Seriously," Anna says, draining her cup, "don't ask."

"Okay…you're not usually this chatty," Anne quips.

"Tiki Death Punch," Anna explains.

"Ah."

"Hey, do you see that guy at the beer pong table over there?"

"Buckingham?" Anna asks, "yeah, what about him?"

"Not him…his back is to us…God, turn around," Anne mutters.

"It's a nice back," she observes, "it looks…muscled."

"I guess…Brandon!" she shouts.

He turns around, brow furrowed.

Anna covers her mouth with her hand, eyes widening.

"Yeah?" he yells.

Anne didn't exactly think this far.

"How good are you at beer pong?"

"He's crap," Buckingham shouts.

"I'm awesome at it. Why?"

Anne shrugs, takes a handful of popcorn from the bowl in her lap, and shoves it in her mouth.

Brandon rolls his eyes and returns to the game, sinking another one of Buckingham's cups and hollering as he does so.

"He's a Greek god," Anna whispers, "what the fuck?"

"He's alright."

"Are you fucking kidding me? He's gorgeous. Why do all the girls at this school have their panties in a twist over Tudor, when he's-oh, right," Anna says, snapping her fingers, "it's the money."

"Henry's attractive," Anne says indignantly.

Anna snorts-she actually _snorts_ -and steals a handful of Anne's popcorn.

"He's a redhead," she scoffs, mouth full of popcorn, "please."

"He's _barely_ a redhead," Anne insists, "his hair has, like, a _hint_ of red."

"'A hint of red'? What are you, his hairstylist?"

"This conversation is pointless," Anne says, shaking her head, "what I meant to ask was…you told me you were amazing at beer pong, right? Am I remembering that right?"

"You are."

"You weren't bluffing, were you?"

"Oh, sweetie. I _never_ bluff."

"Good. Can you do me a favor, then?"

"Shoot."

"Kick his ass for me?"

"Buckingham's?"

"No."

"…the _Greek god_?"

"Yes."

"You want me…to beat the Greek god at beer pong?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Just trust me," Anne says, glaring at him, "he's an asshole. He deserves a good ass kicking."

Anne doesn't ask for favors lightly. Nor is she likely to call just anyone an asshole. So whatever he did to _cause_ this judgment must have been pretty bad. Anna knows this, in the same way that she knows Anne's favorite Girl Scout cookie is Thin Mints, that she always counts a hundred strokes when she brushes her hair at night, that her favorite color is yellow and that her _least_ favorite thing in the world is when random men tell her to smile.

"Consider it done."

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:04 PM**

"Hey, Jen!"

Jen, who's on her way to take out the trash, sighs, drops the bag on the grass, and walks over to the beer pong table.

"What's up, Rich?"

"This beer sucks. Can you get us anything better?"

"Makes no difference to me," Brandon mocks, grinning, "I've only had to drink one so far."

"Something better?" she asks, wrinkling her nose, "what do you mean?"

"It's just cheep beer," he says with a shrug.

"Of course it's cheap beer. You want me to get, what? Stella Artois?"

"Sure."

"For drinks that are going to get balls thrown in them?"

Brandon and Buckingham chuckle.

"I mean, I'm sure you're not _used_ to _balls_ being thrown in," Buckingham says lewdly, "but yeah. Basically."

"What was that?"

"I said-"

"Aren't you Valois' friend?" she asks.

"Yeah, so?"

"In the same frat, right?"

"Yeah-"

"Get the fuck out."

"No way."

"Your friend almost started a fistfight in my house-"

"Tudor was there too! How do you know-"

"Tudor didn't corner a girl and not let go of her! He told me what happened. Valois is not going to be invited back here."

"What, and you're just going to believe him?"

Brandon's gaze has been flickering between both Jen and Buckingham, like he's watching a tennis match.

"I do believe him. And I also believe my security cameras."

"I-"

"Get the _fuck_ out!" she snaps again, shrilly this time.

Honestly, Jen thinks as she walks back to grab the trash bag, sometimes the stress of being Beta Thau President does _not_ seem worth it.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:07 PM**

"Who wants to play?"

"I will," calls Anna Seville.

She walks over to the other side of the table, takes one of the ping pong balls from the laundry hamper by her side, tossing it in the air and catching it repeatedly.

"You sure?" Brandon asks, grinning.

Anna is maybe 5'2 at most, _maybe_ 100 pounds soaking wet. He's seen her drop books and stumble walking into Chem class, at a _normal_ pace, seen her flinch at frisbees flying in the quad. He doubts she can throw anything.

"I said I will."

"I don't want you to embarrass yourself."

"Oh," she says, laughing, "I don't think _I'm_ the one that's going to be embarrassed."

"Really?"

"Table Tennis State Champion, 2015. It's not that far off from this."

"And that's something you're going to brag about?"

"Yeah, it is."

"You sure about that?"

"Tell you what," she says, "I'll even let you go first."

"Fine by me."

Brandon throws the ping pong ball and lands it in the cup closest to him.

She shrugs, chugs it and wipes her mouth.

"If I sink these next two, let's make it interesting."

"How interesting?"

"Add paddles. Someone told me they're taped to the bottom of the table."

"Wouldn't that make it easier?"

"For me," she says, beaming, "but if that freaks you out…what with me being a _literal_ champion-"

"I've played racquetball, tennis…I think I'll be just fine."

"Great! My turn."

Anna does, surprising Brandon, land the next two. Brandon drinks each cup grudgingly, glaring at her over the rim as he does so.

The freshman girl claps with glee and crawls under the table, bringing out two paddles when she crawls back out.

She hands him one, then practically skips to her side of the table.

"Who told you about the paddles?"

"Jen," she says, bouncing the ball on her paddle ( _show-off_ ), "said she wanted to give the option of 'Dartmouth style beer pong'. I think Dartmouth was her first choice. That girl is not _any_ kind of California chill."

It's Brandon's turn again. He throws the ball and bats it straight away with the paddle, just like he'd do with a racquet in tennis.

The ball hits the rim of one of the outer cups in Anna's triangle but ends up bouncing off into the grass.

"Oh!" Anna says, "well…" she grabs another ball from the hamper and hits it as it soars in a perfect arc, somehow impossibly hitting the cup closest to _him_ (rather than her), " _if_ there had been a cup there, you would've _totally_ had that one."

A crowd has gathered. The Boleyn sisters and Lizzy Blount are standing under the jacaranda tree that's strung with fairy lights, laughing and cheering for Anna. Jen is at the mixed drinks booth, checking stock with another senior girl, but definitely watching. His friends and teammates are alternately sitting on lawn chairs or standing, huddled in blankets with their girl of choice.

Tom Wyatt, who (yeah, he knows he was kind of a dick to earlier, but whatever, excuse him for wanting to sit next to _his_ friend) is sitting on a blanket with his guitar, strumming along to whatever song's on and smiling, occasionally looking up to give Brandon a grin of the "eat-shit" variety.

Buckingham, incidentally, wasn't wrong-this beer is nasty, especially the more you drink of it. Even by Brandon's standards, and he used to lift Bud Light from the corner market on his walk home from high school and drink it _happily_.

And Brandon _swears_ if they play one more Selena Gomez song he's going to lose his shit (he had to listen to every single song of hers since Wizards of Waverly Place, thanks to his younger sister being her "biggest fan"):

 _"I'm so sick of that same old love/That shit it tears me up"_

Like, if you're so sick of it, stop _singing_ about it, maybe? God.

After every cup he misses, Anna repeats the mocking "well, if there was a cup there".

She only has to drink one more cup of beer throughout the rest of the game before he folds.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:22 PM**

"God, hope he doesn't throw up," Will remarks after Brandon's fifth cup.

"He's not a lightweight," Henry says, "he'll be fine."

"What did he drink before he played?" Jen asks.

"One beer, I think," Henry says, "why?"

Jen laughs, sipping on some pink drink with cubes of ice.

"Unless he's secretly a ninety-pound high schooler, I seriously doubt it."

"Why?"

"The beer pong beer is O'Doole's."

"Non alcoholic beer?" Will exclaims.

"Yeah. I don't want anyone throwing up in the yard. Or God forbid-the House."

Henry makes a note to himself to tell him as soon as he's done. He doesn't want to deal with the placebo effect. Brandon is an _obnoxious_ drunk.

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:45 PM**

Brandon doesn't normally smoke, but he bummed one from Henry after his defeat. He hasn't been beaten that badly in a while.

He finished that cigarette ten minutes ago and has just been standing outside on the balcony ever since. He's debating going back inside and getting another when he hears the door sliding open behind him.

Brandon turns around to see who it is.

It's Anna Seville, holding a paper plate in her hand, Clark Kent glasses falling over the bridge of her nose.

"Hey," he says, relaxed. She's cute, but not really hot enough to be intimidating. The least attractive of her friends, actually– not pretty like Mary, not striking like Anne. Just cute.

You never know, though, so he pops a piece of gum in his mouth. Just in case.

"Hey," she replies, equally nonchalant, chucking her paper plate into the trash bin outside.

She stands near the door, arms crossed. Her tawny hair is in two braids that reach the low scoop of her shirt. It's something he noticed every time she bent down to collect the balls that missed and hit the grass, and it's something he notices now.

He feels awkward, and decides he should say something rather than just stare at her chest.

"You're a– you're really good at beer pong."

"Yeah, I know."

"Alright," he drawls, "just trying to be polite."

"Yeah, but you suck at being polite."

"Whatever."

Anna looks at him, as if measuring him, and walks out to the balcony railing to stand next to him.

"Listen," she says, "let me be real with you for a sec– I like sex."

He turns to face her, quirking an eyebrow at this declaration.

"Like, I _really_ like sex. And while I don't like _you_ , particularly, you're really hot and I figure you'll do. Also," she says, talking faster now, "Mary thinks I need to get laid and I agree and she's agreed to let me use her room for the night, provided I clean the sheets, and–"

"Wow."

"Yeah, she's a true blue friend. So, anyway. You down or no?"

"I mean–yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Cool."

She pulls the can of soda he's been holding (he really didn't want to taste any more beer, fake or otherwise) out of his hand and throws it in the trash.

"What–"

"You're not gonna need that," she says with a shrug, taking his hand, "let's go."

And so they go, into the hallway of bedrooms, her pulling him behind, him basically along for the ride.

—

 **November 19, 2016, Saturday, 11:50 PM**

"You gonna take off your shoes?" she asks expectantly.

"Oh–right," he says, kicking off his sneakers next to the door.

"Are you?" he asks.

"I'm wearing thigh highs and a garter belt with Mary Janes. You _want_ to ruin that image?"

He shakes his head vehemently.

"Good."

"Well, this is happening," he murmurs as she unzips her skirt and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of it and towards him.

Good call on the keeping-of-the-shoes thing, he thinks, drinking her in from head to toe. He's definitely never imagined _this_ underneath her animal-print sweaters in Chem class. He'd assumed she was a basic, cotton, matching underwear-and-bra girl, so the Dita Von Teese get-up is both surprising and thrilling.

"Of course this is happening. Do you usually talk to yourself?"

"I wasn't–"

"Don't care," she says, pushing him until he's standing, legs locked against the mattress.

"I–"

"First off," she says, taking off her shirt, "I'm going to be on top. Non negotiable."

"Oh…alright–"

She can tell that he's a little taken aback at her assertiveness, but she plows on ahead.

"Also non negotiable," she says, getting on her knees and making quick work of loosening his belt, "you're wearing a condom."

"I don't have–"

She reaches into the left cup of her bra with one hand and throws three on the bed–"pick one"–ridding him of his jeans with her other hand.

"You carry three condoms on you?"

"Girl Scouts," she says by way of explanation.

"Girl Scouts carry condoms? What the–"

"What? No. Pull yourself together, Brandon. The motto? 'Always be prepared'?"

"Ooooh."

"Maybe you just shouldn't talk," she says, pulling his boxers down with her teeth.

"I–I can do that."

"Glad."


	14. Chapter 14

**author note: 'saturday night' is a song by natalia kills. no copyright infringement intended.**

 **November 19, Saturday, 11:59 PM**

Henry Tudor and Will Compton are playing beer pong. There are quite a few sorority girls watching them and cheering, but there's not nearly as many people out as when Anna and Brandon were playing against each other. A cocky, handsome well-known jock being losing to an intellectual but little-known freshman girl had been a little too _Glee_ for anyone to resist, apparently.

Anne, bored since Anna, Mary, and Lizzy have all decided to disappear on her, sits down on the plaid blanket that Tom's currently occupying.

"Are you really doing homework?" she quips.

"I really am."

"Why'd you bring it to a party?"

"I was trying to work on it at my dorm at first, but…sometimes quiet is more distracting to me than noise," Tom explains.

"I understand. What's the assignment for?"

"Lyricism in Modern Music. We had to pick a song that had a day of the week in the title, which is harder than you may think."

"Well…'Friday I'm in Love'," Anne offers.

"We don't get extra credit if the song's on the charts."

"And this one isn't?"

"Well, I think it was in New Zealand, but I _hope_ that doesn't count."

"What do you have to do with it?" Anne asks, leaning over the sheet music.

"We have to perform it as a duet, so I'm trying to figure out which parts to split up."

"Interesting. Mind if I take a look?"

"Go ahead."

 **12:00 AM**

"You're not even trying," Will complains, "you're making this way too easy for me."

"Yeah, sure," Henry says, throwing the ping pong ball out of the cup Will landed in his triangle and gulping it quickly.

"Why do you keep looking at the door? Are you expecting Emily Ratajowski to stop by?"

"What?" Henry asks, throwing a ball that hits Will on the shoulder and bounces off the table.

"You're not even looking to see where the ball's going! The fuck, Tudor?"

 **12:05 AM**

"Do you mind if I make a suggestion?" Anne asks, trading the sheets of music she's been reading with the drink Tom's been holding for her.

"Go ahead."

"Are you supposed to pick your own instrument for this song?"

"Yeah, we are. And _you're_ actually drinking."

"So?"

"You usually don't."

"College experience," Anne says with a wave of her hand, taking a sip of her Cosmo, "but anyway, this song seems more like a piano song than a guitar song."

Tom examines the music, tapping his pen against it.

"Y'know, I think you're right."

"There's a piano in the living room. I've used it before when I've been waiting for Mary to come down, and Jen doesn't mind. Want to work on it together?"

It's hard to say no to her. Maybe she's not trying to flirt, maybe she's just being friendly, but Tom can't really tell the difference. She's sitting close to him, head tilted to the side, smiling while biting part of her lower lip. Eyes alight, she pushes her hair back behind her ears, and Tom gets the feeling that this isn't _just_ the kind of girl that songs get written about (he's certainly written a few himself), that she's one men might have risked kingdoms for, in the olden days.

Maybe her sister's closer to Helen of Troy, maybe Anne's not exactly the face that launched a thousand ships, maybe her features aren't perfectly symmetrical, but she definitely has that _je ne sais quoi._

But Tom has had this feeling since he was sixteen, so he tries to brush it off best he can.

"Sure," he says, "that sounds fun."

 **12:07 AM**

Tudor has landed absolutely _none_ of his shots into any of Will's cups. In fact, he just raised his arm and so far he has yet to throw, and it's _his_ turn. He's just totally frozen

"You having a stroke there, my guy?" Will calls out.

He follows his friend's gaze over his shoulder. There's Andrea Hastings, who he knows slept with Tudor a year ago, who's been batting her eyelashes at him all night (not that Tudor seems to be noticing, even though she's not exactly being subtle), and her friends, and there's that musician guy, Wyatt, who's leaving with the Boleyn girl that decimated Buckingham earlier tonight.

One of these things is not like the other, Will thinks.

A drunken memory comes trickling back from last night: Will, stumbling out onto the balcony. Tudor and Boleyn, heads close together, them springing apart like repelling magnets as soon as he announced himself. _You're not asking her out_ , Tudor had said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

 _Interesting_.

"Your turn!" he yells.

Tudor shakes his head, then makes the shot into one of the many of Will's remaining cups.

"You win," says Tudor, the most competitive friend Will's ever had, "I'm going inside."

"Tudor-"

Andrea Hastings watches him leave, then follows after him.

So, Will thinks, Wyatt is following Boleyn, and Tudor is following Boleyn, Andrea Hastings is following Tudor, and no one is following Andrea Hastings.

 _Fucking tragic, is what that is._

 **12:10 AM**

Tom plays the intro to the song and sings the first few lines:

 _mama, you're beautiful tonight/movie star hair and that black eye/can't even notice it/when you smile so hard through a heartfelt lie_

Anne joins in and sings:

 _go kiss the liquor off his laugh-_

But is cut off by someone clearing their throat loudly behind her.

Anne turns around to see the tiny but intimidating Jen Parker standing behind her with her arms crossed.

"Yes?" Anne asks innocently.

"What are you doing?"

"Singing," Anne answers, "is that a prob-"

"I mean, _I'm_ playing music. Specifically picked party playlist music."

"Oh," Tom says, "we're sorry, we can sing more quietly-"

"I can't have that," Jen says with exaggerated patience, tugging at her necklace, "I just, I can't have two things playing at the same time because that would be _chaos_."

Anne thinks this is the first time she has ever seen a woman _literally_ clutch her pearls in real life.

"Well, we can stop," Tom offers.

"No, I mean, I kind of like the whole impromptu concert thing. It's like, a good vibe. I just don't know…this song kind of seems like a downer."

"It picks up on the chorus," Anne reassures her.

"It really does. It's also called 'Saturday Night'," Tom informs her with a rakish grin, "so, hey. Fitting, right?"

"Can I see the song?"

"Sure," Tom says, sliding the music off the piano stand and passing it to her.

Jen scans it quickly, leans down and whispers something to Tom.

Tom, in turn, whispers to Anne: "She says the third verse is a little too 'Virgin Suicides' for a party, so we have to skip it."

Anne nods.

Tom and Anne throw Jen a thumbs up. Jen nods, then goes to the back of the room to unplug the speakers.

 **12:15 AM**

"Thought you didn't follow girls," Will whispers.

"What the fuck are you on about?" Henry asks.

Will's standing with him against the wall in the living room. There's a lot of people milling about. Tom Wyatt's not exactly as popular with the girls on campus as, say, Tudor or Brandon, but musicians always pull in their fair share of female attention. And his is probably the most popular among campus bands, so there's a niche there.

They're flitting about Wyatt, some glaring outwardly at Anne Boleyn, but she seems unfazed, reading through the music with Tom and laughing, pointing things out.

"Nothing."

Will can smell Henry's drink. It's probably more rum than coke.

"Hastings has been checking you out all night, just FYI," Will informs his friend.

"Good for her."

Tom, after marking something on the paper he and Anne are looking at, starts playing again.

 **12:17 AM**

Anne sings:

 _go kiss the liquor off his laugh/another suitcase filled with cash/shiny apologies in a velvet box/what a real good man_

Unbidden (maybe it was talking about her last night, he almost never talks about her), memories come to Henry of his mother: her gentleness, her kindness, her long, golden hair and the pins she used to put it up every morning.

Her only defiance of his father had been in the keeping of her name: Elizabeth York.

Tom sings:

 _we drive brand new cars/and we light fine cigars/we shine like small-town stars/through the best days of our lives_

Otherwise, she pretty much lived to serve him. When Henry Tudor I wanted her smiles to stop lighting up the TV screens of housewives every afternoon at three, they did. When he wanted more children, she had them.

They sing in unison:

 _we will walk right down the pavement/i know we're gonna be just fine/and i'll put on my dancing shoes real tight: 'cause it's just another saturday night!_

Anne's brow furrows before she begins to sing the next part, and she sings with great carefulness:

 _another first, another wall/we lose ourselves, we lose it all/i wrote him a hundred times/can you hear my heart through the prison bars?_

Tom sings:

 _the boys i kiss don't know my name-_

"GAAAY!"

Henry turns, startled, to Compton, who's suddenly coughing violently. Henry punches him in the shoulder and he yelps in pain, "not cool, man."

"Don't be a jackass," Henry says.

"Sorry," Tom says sarcastically, "I don't change the pronouns in songs for 'no homo'."

"Sorry, man," Compton says, "ah…continue?"

Tom rolls his eyes, then goes back to playing, starting over his lines:

 _the_ _ **boys**_ _i kiss don't know my name/the tears i cry all taste of blame/bad luck and dirty cops_

Anne and Tom sing the last line together:

 _i'm a fucking teenage tragedy_

And then, Anne sings, alone and passionately:

 _i walk lonely streets/and i talk big time dreams/so_ _ **hold on**_ _before you see that you're better off without me_

Before they both sing the chorus together again:

 _'cause when i look up from the pavement…_

Anne's eyes flit up from the sheet music to Henry as Tom plays the interlude after the chorus. She holds his gaze, and he can't help but feel that she's singing _to_ him:

 _i promise i'll be the one you want/don't tell me i'm unfixable/you don't know what it's like/to be seventeen with no place to go_

She takes a deep breath and sings:

 _but give me just one night/and i'll be_ _ **almost fine**_ _/remind me, one more time/it's the best days of my life_

Anne and Tom segue into the chorus again, singing about five or six more ' _it's just another saturday night'_ s before he lets his hands slide off the piano and into his lap.

The room claps and they bow their heads.

 **12:21 AM**

Will is clapping politely ( _I mean, they weren't_ _ **that**_ _great_ ). His eyes slide over to his friend, who is applauding and smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

And, Will guesses, Anne Boleyn is the Christmas present.

Which would make Wyatt…the inconvenient wrapping paper? A ribbon that won't untie? Some kid _trying_ to unwrap the Christmas present that Henry wants?

Whatever. Will's not really an analogy guy.

But, he thinks (as he watches Henry rush over to her and give her a high five). she's _definitely_ the Christmas present. _That_ much he knows.

 **November 20, 2016, Sunday, 1:03 AM**

"Remind me to lose more often," Brandon says, out of breath.

Anna laughs, sitting up in bed and pulling her hair up into a ponytail.

Brandon watches her as she slides the straps of her bra back on, hooking it from behind.

Her skin is slick with sweat and covered in freckles.

She gets out of the bed and picks her shirt up from the dresser (giving him a nice view of her bare ass), pulling it over her head.

"Where are you going?" he asks, puzzled.

"I'm going back to my dorm to change," she explains, picking her skirt up from the floor and pulling it up over her legs, "and then I have to come back, get the sheets, wash them in the laundry room…put the _new_ sheets on that my friend left for me...dry them, put them in here, and then I'll either sleep over or go back to my dorm, since she said I could have it for the whole night. Probably sleep over," she says, nodding to herself like she just decided on it.

Brandon sits up, pulling the sheets up with him.

Anna zips up her skirt and walks over to the vanity and smears some lip gloss over her mouth. She takes a tissue from the sparkly box that's next to a basket of makeup, licks it, and tries to wipe away some of the eyeliner that's smudged under her eyes.

"So…can I...have your number?" he asks.

"Why would you need that?"

"So we can do this again sometime."

Anna steps away from the mirror, turns around and looks at him through squinted eyes.

"...why?"

"Because it was fun. You _seemed_ to enjoy it, anyway."

Anna sighs, pushes her glasses back up her nose, and leans against the vanity.

"I did. I don't fake anything for the sake of male egos," she informs him, crossing her arms, "not IQ, not orgasms."

"Noted."

"So it was fun," she explains, "for the night."

"Why wouldn't it be just as fun...another night?"

"Brandon, have you never been one night stranded before? Because I'm trying to tell you, as gently as possible, that I'm one night standing you."

"So there's like...nothing I could say to make you give me your number?"

"Nothing comes to mind..."

Brandon racks his brain, trying to think of something.

She's pretty hot, actually (he amends his previous just-cute opinion, after seeing her naked, it's changed considerably), which he never noticed before, and she kicked his ass at beer pong and asked him to hook up right after (also hot) and she likes sex as much as she said she does, and she's also really, _really_ good at it.

And she didn't even want to cuddle? Like, what the fuck, honestly. When does _that_ happen?

Basically he wants to tug on her ponytail and make her scream his name. Like, as soon as humanly possible.

"Can I go down on you?"

"In exchange for my number? That seems vaguely prostitution-like."

" _Hardly_."

"Besides," she says with a shrug, "you already did."

"As a segue. Not as the main event."

She considers this. Sighs, chews on the end of her ponytail (which should be kind of gross, but it's actually just making him think about tugging it more).

"I _just_ changed," she says.

"You're wearing a skirt, but not underwear," he counters.

"Okay…deal."

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent November 20, 2016, Sunday, 3:35 PM**

Hey, can I ask you a favor?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Of course. What's up?

 **From: Anna Seville**

My Creative Writing grade has been in dangerous A- territory lately (dumbest elective choice of my liiiIIIFE), so I've been working on this extra credit thing for it.

 **From: Anne**

Sounds intriguing. Where do I come in?

 **From: Anna**

Well, I had to write a play. My prof needs to see it performed. It's just a read, though, everyone can hold the scripts in their hands, you just have to follow stage directions from me.

 **From: Anne**

Sounds fun.

 **From: Anna**

Should be! Someone already agreed to be the lead but they flaked. So you'd have a lot of lines, hope that's ok…

 **From: Anne**

It's ok. What time is it at?

 **From: Anna**

It's on Tuesday. We perform at 3:30 but be there like 3ish?

 **From: Anne**

I can make that.

 **From: Anna**

Great! Oh, one more thing…it's kind of a romantic play?

 **From: Anne**

So?

 **From: Anna**

So…Tom's playing the romantic lead, opposite you. Is that ok?

 **From: Anne**

Yeah, it's fine.

 **From: Anna**

Yay! Ok so I'll message you on Facebook with an attachment of the script. Thanks so much!

 **From: Anne**

No problem.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Charles Brandon**

 **Sent November 20, 2016, Sunday, 5:35 PM**

Hey, can I ask you a favor?

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

Is it dirty?

 **From: Anna Seville**

No.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

Oh. Well, if I do it, will you do a dirty favor for me?

 **From: Anna**

Oh my GOD. Never mind.

 **From: Brandon**

Relax. Just giving you a hard time. What is it?

 **From: Anna**

I had to write this play for extra credit and I need a reader for one of the roles.

 **From: Brandon**

You need extra credit?

 **From: Anna**

Yes…why?

 **From: Brandon**

How the mighty have fallen.

 **From: Anna**

What?

 **From: Brandon**

We're just not so different, that's all.

 **From: Anna**

You're asleep in Chem class half the time and I'm top of that class. I know because I've seen the curve. We're a little different.

 **From: Brandon**

Ha ha, so you watch me sleep ;-)

 **From: Anna**

I hear you. Sometimes you snore.

 **From: Brandon**

I've definitely never snored in my life.

How many lines?

 **From: Anna**

Well, then apparently you're dead.

Ten.

 **From: Brandon**

Do I have to memorize?

 **From: Anna**

No, it's just a read. Everyone will have their scripts with them.

 **From: Brandon**

Sounds alright. What time is it at?

 **From: Anna**

It's at 3'oclock this Tuesday.

 **From: Brandon**

Okay, I'll be there.

 **From: Anna**

I'll send you a copy of the script. Can I have your email?

 **From: Brandon**

You can have anything you want.

 **From: Anna**

You have $250K? Omg, thanks so much!

 **From: Brandon**

No. Athletics scholarship.

 **From: Anna**

Brandon, do you know what "anything" means?

 **From: Brandon**

Seville, do you know what "annoyingly literal" means?

 **From: Anna**

Touché


	15. Chapter 15

**November 22, 2016, Tuesday, 11:00 AM**

written on the 34th page of henry's spiral notebook:

 **you look nice today.**

 _henry, you're supposed to be_ _taking_ _notes, not passing them._

 **i'm bored. and i have an 85 in the class, anyway.**

 _then you should cancel- this is supposed to be for struggling students._

 **and give up my slot? never. besides, this is for anyone that wants help.**

 _i'm sure you have better ways to spend a tuesday._

 **none come to mind.**

 _you're_ _supposed_ _to be doing your practice problems._

 **i'm** **supposed** **to do many things i don't want to do.**

 _if you're going to write, at least do so_ _en français. proper punctuation and accents._

 **"Voilà** _ **ma petite**_ _ **Amélie**_ _ **, vous n'avez pas des os en verre."**_

 _you watched it again?_

 _ **Oui.**_

 _"_ _Le_ s _jours_ , _les_ _mois_ , _puis_ _les_ _années passent_. _Le_ _monde extérieur paraît si mort qu_ ' _Amélie préfère rêver sa vie_ _en_ _attendant_ _d'_ _avoir_ _l'_ _âge_ _de_ _partir."_

 _ **is that how you felt? growing up?**_

 _sometimes._

" _ **Ca s'appelle se confronter**_ **à la** _**réalité**_ , _**mais**_ **ça** _**justement**_ , _**Amélie n'y tient pas du tout**_!"

 _is that how you feel?_

 **Oui.**

 _what's so bad about your reality? i can't see how don't have everything you want._

 **not everything.**

 _so, what's wrong?_

 **not looking forward to seeing my dad this holiday.**

 _Pourquoi pas?_

 _ **Il est très critique.**_

 _what does he have to criticize? you're well-liked, a good student, a_ _great_ _athlete, polite (most of the time)…_

 _ **Merci.**_

 _De rien._

 _ **trust me, he always finds something. Last time it was my "lack of focus". And he had a 4.0 during his entire four years at Whitehall, so he doesn't see why I can't?**_

 _what's your gpa?_

 _ **3.5**_

 _that's good, though!_

 _ **not good enough. anyway: what will you be doing over break?**_

 _well, café will be closed. but i booked a gig as an extra on some teen soap. it's shooting near sunset and vine._

 _ **sounds fun.**_

 _hopefully it will be. now, can you please_ _actually_ _do your worksheet? we have five minutes left in our session and i don't want to get fired._

 _ **dictator.**_

 _procrastinator!_

 _ **C'est vrai.**_

 _ **-page ends-**_

 _ **November 22, 2016, Tuesday, 2:28 PM**_

 _Brandon wakes up with a dry mouth. He sits up in his bed, leaning against the wall, and stretches his arms above his head_

 _Henry is sitting on top of the covers on his bed, back against the headboard. He runs his hand over his head._

 _There's a clipboard placed across his knees, a piece of paper attached to it. He writers, and crosses something out. Writes, crosses out. He yanks the paper, crushes it, and throws it on the floor, adding to a sizeable pile of crumpled papers already there._

 _"What are you doing?" Brandon asks, grabbing the open can of coke on his nightstand and drinking it, grimacing when he tastes how flat it is._

 _"Nothing," Henry says, tossing the clipboard onto his desk, "good nap?"_

 _"Fine, I guess," Brandon says, groggy, wiping sleep out of his eyes, "don't remember taking it though."_

 _"You came in at half past noon, said 'fuck morning classes', dropped your textbooks on the floor and crashed," Henry informs him._

 _"That sounds like me."_

 _Brandon has a weird feeling…like he's forgotten something._

 _"What time is it?" he asks._

 _"It's…"Henry checks his phone and answers, "2:30."_

 _"2:30?!"_

 _Shit, Anna's play…_

 _"Goddamn it!" Brandon exclaims, rolling off the bed and landing on the floor in his haste to get up (luckily the comforter, twisted around him as it was, manages to cushion his fall somewhat)._

 _"Jesus! What's wrong with_ _you_ _?"_

 _"I have to be across campus in like, half an hour…"_

 _"Where?"_

 _"Humanities building," Brandon says, pulling on his shoes and tying them. Thankfully he fell asleep fully dressed, so he doesn't have to worry about putting jeans on or anything like that._

 _"For what?"_

 _"Extra credit thing."_

 _"Ah, well, you_ _could_ _use some of that."_

 _"Not even_ _mine_ _, though," Brandon says, "motherfuck-where did I put it?!"_

 _He's rummaging through everything atop his desk: tangled headphones, USB drive, lab papers, crumpled syllabus, a receipt with a barista's phone number written on the back (female), a receipt with a bartender's phone number on the back (male), a dozen highlighters, a_ _sock_ _(for some odd reason), graphing calculator, pencils, his student planner…_

 _"What do you mean 'not even yours'? Who's it for?"_

 _"A-_ _ha_ _!"_

 _Brandon pulls out his copy of the play, grabs his bookbag from off the floor and shoves it in._

 _He can't find his cell phone on the desk so he starts searching on his bed…only to find it under his pillow! Of course. He falls asleep with his phone all the time._

 _"Brandon? Who's it for?"_

 _"A person," he says, putting his phone in his bag, too, "get off my ass, maybe?"_

 _"Is it a_ _girl_ _person?"_

 _"Yes," he snaps, "and I'd_ _like_ _to sleep with her again, so I can't bail on this favor-"_

 _"_ _'Sleep with her_ _'? Aw. Do you tuck her in first?"_

 _"No, that'd be_ _your_ _thing," Brandon shoots back._

 _Henry's mouth drops open._

 _Brandon's pretty proud of himself for that one. He's usually not so quick with the comebacks, especially not right after waking up._

 _"Do we have anything to eat?" Brandon asks, "I don't have time to stop for food, so-"_

 _"I have a donut," Henry says, grabbing a grease-spotted bag atop a stack of magazines on his desk, "catch."_

 _Brandon catches it, opens the bag and shoves it in his mouth._

 _"Thanks!" he says around the donut, opening the door and letting it swing shut behind him._

 _ **2:32 PM**_

 _Henry walks over to the trash can to throw away the bottle of water he just finished when he notices that Brandon's keys are still on his desk._

 _Shit._

 _He was planning on leaving soon, but he can't leave Brandon locked out._

 _Henry sighs and grabs the keys from Brandon's desk._

 _He grabs his bag (which is always packed and ready to go, because he is a prepared person and_ _not_ _a disorganized mess, unlike_ _some_ _people he could mention) and leaves the dorm._

 _ **2:34 PM**_

 _He can see the back of his friend, running along the most direct path on campus that leads to Humanities._

 _He groans, but runs behind him, trying to catch up._

 _ **2:43 PM**_

 _Brandon gets to room 302, the one Anna told him to meet him at._

 _Anna is there in the hallway, pacing, her hand covering one of her ears, phone against the other one._

 _"Tom-no, Tom, you cannot do this to me! You promised!"_

 _She's chewing the end of her ponytail._

 _Brandon waves. She waves back, distracted._

 _"Well, I don't really care that you have strep throat! You cannot leave me hanging like this!"_

 _Jesus._

 _"Your voice isn't_ _that_ _hoarse…_ _I_ _can hear you…Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?!"_

 _"Brandon!"_

 _When Brandon turns to see_ _who_ _put their hand so familiarly on his shoulder, he sees Henry, who's dangling keys above his head._

 _"You forgot these."_

 _"Oh, thanks man-"_

 _"Yeah, yeah, you're REALLY sorry, I'm SO sure…whatever. I have to go. Thanks for fucking over," Anna half-screams into her phone._

 _'Is that her?'_ _Henry mouths, clearly on the verge of laughter._

 _"Hey," Anna says, running over to Henry and Brandon, "hey, you! Tudor!"_

 _"Yes?"_

 _"You're not busy, are you?"_

 _"Actually-"_

 _"Because I don't know if you heard-"_

 _"Oh, I think_ _everyone_ _heard-"_

 _"But my lead just bailed on me-"_

 _"Ah,_ _actually_ _, I have to get going-"_

 _"Why? Why do you need to go?"_

 _"I have an errand to run."_

 _"Really? What kind of errand?"_

 _"The kind that needs to get done," Henry says impatiently, shooting Brandon a disbelieving look._

 _Brandon shrugs back, in a 'don't look at_ _me_ _' sort of way._

 _"Where are you going?"_

 _"I'm going to the post office, if you_ _must_ _know."_

 _"To do what?"_

 _"Send_ _mail_ _."_

 _"You know, there's a rumor I heard that that's also open tomorrow. Did you know that?"_

 _"Sure, but-"_

 _"Is this super urgent mail? A donor organ? Legal papers?"_

 _"Seville, chill," Brandon says._

 _"I mean-"_

 _"Could you_ _maybe_ _send it tomorrow?" she asks._

 _Her hands are_ _literally_ _shaking. Actually, all of her is vibrating, like she's just had a hundred shots of espresso or something._

 _"Seville!" Henry says._

 _"Tudor. Like…" Anna trails off, puts her hand over her nose and takes a deep breath, "look, okay, I know I may not have always been the_ _warmest_ _to you-"_

 _"_ _That's_ _an understatement."_

 _"But if you could do this_ _one_ _thing for me, I will be," she sighs, "eternally grateful."_

 _"_ _How_ _grateful?"_

 _"I…"_

 _She looks at Brandon, then Henry._

 _"I will…tell you a secret."_

 _"So what?"_

 _"I will tell you…a secret about my roommate."_

 _"Who's your roommate?" Brandon asks, brow furrowing, looking to Henry._

 _Henry is rigid, suddenly, his hand gripping the strap of his shoulder bag so tightly that Brandon can see his knuckles turning white._

 _"Bye, Brandon," Anna says._

 _Brandon scoffs, says "why would he-"_

 _"Bye, Brandon," Henry echoes, eyes never leaving Anna's._

 _"Screw you guys," Brandon says, but he walks down to the other end of the hall and sits on a bench._

 _Whatever_ _, he thinks as he reads over his ten highlighted lines one more time,_ _not like I care_ _._

 _ **2:46 PM**_

 _"And_ _why_ _do you think a secret about Boleyn would interest me?" Henry asks as soon as Brandon's out of earshot._

 _"_ _Please_ _."_

 _"We're friends."_

 _"If that's what you want to call it."_

 _"Not even close friends, really."_

 _"Sure."_

 _"I don't…_ _like_ _her. If that's what you're suggesting," Henry says, flustered, his gaze drops to the floor._

 _"Oh, buddy. You are not fooling_ _anyone_ _with that."_

 _Anna smirks and Henry scowls._

 _"I just_ _have_ _to watch a French movie with you, right now," Anna continues in a deep timbre, obviously imitating him, "I just_ _have_ _to text you incessantly, and gaze longingly at you at parties-"_

 _"What is it?" Henry snaps._

 _"What is what?"_

 _"The '_ _secret_ _'."_

 _"I'll tell you after."_

 _"I don't believe you."_

 _"Well, I don't believe that_ _you'll_ _read the part if I tell you now."_

 _"I'm a man of my word."_

 _"Sure you are."_

 _"You have any other options?"_

 _Anna sighs, puts her face in her hands and lets out a strangled scream._

 _Henry watches her, bemused._

 _"Fine," she says, shaking her head like she's getting that out of her system, "_ _fiiine_ _."_

 _Henry crosses his arms._

 _"I'm waiting."_

 _"She talks about you, okay?"_

 _"Oh?"_

 _"She talks about you…a lot."_

 _Henry grins, and there's something fragile and hopeful in her expression that, if she liked him at all, might just break her heart._

 _But as it is, all she can grudgingly admit to herself is that his smile could only be accurately described as 'dazzling', that when his face is lit up it's something of a masterpiece, and that she can see, objectively, why other people (not her, definitely) find themselves charmed by him._ _That_ _is a smile that wins people over, plain and simple._

 _Brandon's definitely cuter, though._

 _"How do I know you're not making that up?"_

 _"Reader's Digest version? I have to go over some of this before we go in."_

 _"Fine."_

 _"Something about you being in the library, making some sort of stupid comment, something about…a masque, I think? That you're stubborn."_

 _"Doesn't sound very flattering."_

 _"She said you're attractive, too."_

 _"Really?_

 _"But mainly she complains about you._ _But_ _it's with such frequency that…I have to assume you're on her mind. Frequently. Within what context, I couldn't say, of course."_

 _"Of course."_

 _"Will you read the part?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Great."_

 _Anna opens the folder she's carrying and hands him a neat pile of papers held together with a staple._

 _"Your part is 'Peter'," she says, "do you have a highlighter?"_

 _"No."_

 _She pulls one that's behind her ear and hands it to him._

 _"Get to it, we're on in a few minutes," she says, clapping her hands, "thank you!"_

 _She runs off to where Brandon's sitting on the bench at the end of the hall and sits next to him._

 _"Hey, sorry about that."_

 _"That wasn't some weird sex thing, was it?" he asks._

 _"What?"_

 _"You said you'd be 'very grateful', he said 'how grateful'…."_

 _"Oh, God no. I think he's kind of an ass, honestly."_

 _"You think I'm kind of an ass, and you had sex with_ _me_ _," Brandon points out (fairly, Anna has to admit)._

 _"True…but I don't find him even remotely attractive."_

 _"Oh. Good."_

 _"Anyway…you have any questions about your lines?"_

 _"No," he says, smiling, tucking in a piece of hair that came loose and tucking it behind her ear, "it's pretty straightforward."_

 _"What are you doing?"_

 _"Fixing your hair."_

 _"Can you not?"_

 _"Sure, I guess…"_

 _ **2:50 PM**_

 _"What are you doing here?"_

 _Henry looks up from the page he's reading._

 _Anne Boleyn is looking at him, brow furrowed, confused._

 _"Marking my lines. Apparently someone bailed on your friend."_

 _"Tom?"_

 _"That's what it sounded like. What are_ _you_ _doing here?"_

 _"I'm the female lead. Which would make you…?"_

 _"The male lead, I guess."_

 _"Oh."_

 _"Disappointed?" he teases._

 _"No…just surprised."_

 _"Well," he says, turning a page, "it's wasn't in my plans either, but…Seville can be_ _very_ _persuasive."_

 _ **3:07 PM**_

 _The chairs in the class are full, mainly of other students trying to get their work in for some last-minute extra credit before finals._

 _They're pretty attentive, though-they're about two minutes into the play._

 _"This kind of life isn't meant for kings," Brandon reads from his page, "you have to know that."_

 _"Peter puts his hand on Kingsley's shoulder," Anna reads from the script._

 _She's standing in the corner of the room, tucked away. Her professor is sitting at her desk, writing notes._

 _Henry follows her direction and says, "isn't the point of being king that you can choose your life?"_

 _"You'd think that, but a king's life is already chosen. It's chosen by the history of his father, it's chosen by what's best for his family. A wife is no different. She is chosen in the cards before you get to play your own hand," says Brandon._

 _"Then I have to go back," Henry reads, "for I feel she is what has been chosen for me longer than the stars themselves."_

 _"Kingsley exits and Kate enters," Anna reads._

 _Anne, who up till now has been sitting in a desk in the front row, gets up and trades seats with Brandon._

 _Anna walks from her corner and hands Henry a book, then returns to the corner._

 _"Peter hands the book to Kate. She opens it, and reads aloud."_

 _"'If you remember my love in your prayers as strongly as I adore you, I shall hardly be forgotten. For I am yours, forever.'"_

 _"Do you like it? I wrote it for you."_

 _"Is it true?" Anne asks._

 _"God himself could not write truer words."_

 _"Blasphemy, love."_

 _"Then let Him strike me down."_

 _Anne, getting into the acting, runs a finger down a passage of the book._

 _"They step towards each other, closer together now," Anna reads._

 _"You have not read my part yet, then?"_

 _"Which part, my darling?" Henry inquires._

 _"Kate turns a few pages, then hands the book back to Peter," Anna reads._

 _"'By daily proof you shall me find, to be to you both loving and kind.'"_

 _"They kiss," Anna reads._

 _ **3:10 PM**_

 _Anne stills, her throat suddenly dry as a desert._

 _They're standing pretty close, a fairly short distance, but in this moment it feels as if the length between them is a country's worth, distant._

 _It's a cliché, but she really_ _does_ _feel weak in the knees, like she used to get when she had class presentations due (which she got over by the seventh grade), but suddenly that feeling is back and bigger than ever._

 _Students turn to look at each other. The professor is tapping her pen against the desk. The clock is ticking._

 _"They_ _kiss_ _," Anna repeats, an edge of exasperation in her voice._

 _You ok?_ _Henry mouths, gaze steady on her._

 _She gulps, nods._

 _Now or never._

 _They move towards each other. And then, as if dancing, she turns to him, tilting her head. Their chests are almost touching, now._

 _Their height difference is such that when she turns her head slightly, her mouth is on level with the bottom of his chin._

 _Their noses touch, brush against each other, lightly._

 _She tilts her head upwards and looks into his eyes._

 _He cradles her face in his hands, gently, and presses his mouth against her: the lightest of brushes, the most exquisite type of agony she has ever felt._

 _ **3:12 PM**_

 _Time slows, like it has with her before, like it did on the first night they met._

 _She deepens the kiss, pulls him closer, and everything in the world goes soft for a moment, soft like light breaking through stained glass windows, soft like a sigh, soft like the kind of expensive paper you try to only write beautiful words on._

 _He breaks away first, respectfully._

 _Truly, he breaks away first because he's afraid that if he continues he'll never be able to stop, that he'll keep kissing her for as long as she lets him, that the depths of his feelings for her will sink him, this girl of his literal dreams, who he's kissed in dreams (dreams that feel realer than dreams, more like visions, really, or glimpses of a past he's never had) so many times; will take over, that he will keep kissing her till the glaciers melt, till everyone else disappears, that he will take her hand and pull her out into the hall, to his room, and touch every inch of her body until his name is all but written underneath her skin, the way he feels hers under his (she's gotten under his skin, somehow, quickly but surely)._

 _(When he goes out for runs at 4 am it's Anne, when he falls asleep it's Anne; her name a whisper, quiet but insistent and_ _constant,_ _in the same way a prayer is, in the same way dreams that just won't fade are.)_

 _He fears that if he had kept kissing her, fantasy and reality would have collided: it's what he wants most and what he fears most at the same time, a heady and intoxicating combination if ever there was one._

 _ **3:15 PM**_

 _"Did you tell them to do that last direction? Because it was very good," asks Professor Thorne._

 _Anna is sitting in an office chair in front of the desk. Everyone that submitted a play gets a Q and A right after, and this is hers, though it seems to be winding down._

 _Brandon, Anne, and Henry stand, awkwardly clustered, behind her._

 _"Sorry," Anna says, "can you clarify what you mean, please?"_

 _"Right after they kissed," she says, "they sprang apart, and mirrored each other, totally identical reactions: gazes to the floor, and then they touched their mouths, as if they were still…feeling the kiss."_

 _"Ah, yes! I did!" Anna lies enthusiastically._

 _She_ _really_ _needs the extra credit._

 _"That was very well done," Thorne says, checking a few boxes off the sheet, "you could really feel the fragility of that moment, that couple. And the language! I couldn't tell what era it was, exactly, it felt timeless, but in any case, I felt very transported."_

 _"Thank you," Anna says sweetly._

 _Thorne nods, hands her the paper, and calls out for the next group's scene._

 _Anna gets up from the chair and giggles._

 _"I got an A!" she gloats as soon as they've left the classroom, "you guys! I got an A!"_

 _"That's great," Anne says weakly._

 _"Great," echoes Henry._

 _"God, what's wrong with you guys? You need coffee or something?"_

 _"I could go for a coffee," Brandon says._

 _"I'll buy you one!" Anna says._

 _Nothing_ _cheers her up like an A (well, maybe sex. they're pretty much on equal footing)._

 _"Do you guys want any?" Anna offers, "as a thank you, you all really saved my grade."_

 _"I have to go pack," Henry says abruptly, "but thanks, anyway."_

 _Henry half-runs down the hall. Anna's not about to try to keep up with him._

 _"Anne?"_

 _"No, thanks, I'm supposed to meet up with Mary in a few minutes, so I should take this door…" she trails off, pointing to an exit that takes you most directly to the sorority houses from this building._

 _"Okay! Bye!"_

 _"Looks like it's just us," Brandon says._

 _"Looks that way."_

 _ **from: margaret tudor**_

 _ **to: henry tudor**_

 _ **sent november 23, 2016, wednesday, 9:04 PM**_

 _katherine says she hasn't heard from you in a while._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _well, i haven't heard from_ _her_ _in a while._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _ok. who are you seeing?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _idk what you're talking about._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _you always do this. you get interested in someone, you ice her out, then you get bored and come back to her. you both know that's going to happen anyway, so why do this? why hurt her in the process? what's the point?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _i'm sorry, what qualifies you as a relationship expert, exactly?_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _i'm an expert in your relationship. because i see the same thing happen, over and over._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _well, maybe_ _she's_ _seeing someone. maybe she's seeing someone and you're just trying to throw me off! hmm? check AND mate._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _…are you drunk?_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _you're not going to throw me off by quoting parks and rec at me, brother._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _what about that guy, alfonso herrera? know she's been on at least one date with him._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _really?! the sense8 guy?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _i guess. all i know is he used to be on a telenovela she watched._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _rebelde?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _yeah, that sounds right._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _wow! he's hot. why is she still with you?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _hey!_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _call your girlfriend._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _do your homework._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _already took my GED. just waiting for results._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _there is NO WAY dad is letting you just get a GED._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _"GEDs are for unwed teen mothers, illegal immigrants and the future janitors of america"…yeah, yeah, yeah, i know._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _doesn't your parent have to sign?_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _he did._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _no, he fucking didn't._

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _well…he thought he was signing an application to brentwood private school._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _margaret!_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _i mean, what's he gonna do?_

 _ **from: henry**_

 _gee, idk…disinherit you?_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _…oh, shit._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _yeah. and what's going to happen when he puts in a call to see if he can bribe them to let in a previously expelled daughter?_

 _ **from: margaret**_

 _shit._

 _ **from: henry**_

 _you better actually apply there ASAP. or you are gonna be in deep, DEEP shit._


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: I also update this story on archiveofourown, with more frequency. Because honestly, uploading is kind of a pain on this website. Formatting is a pain. The last chapter wasn't supposed to be all in italics and it wasn't in the document, but it was uploaded that way. When I have excessive punctuation (Which I write because it's realistic for the text messages the characters exchange), it gets auto-edited on here. Also, I can reply to guest comments on archiveofourown. I'll try to upload chapters here too, but if anyone who follows this story wants to get updates sooner, I'd recommend checking it there instead.

Thanks, and hope you enjoy!

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Charles Brandon**

 **Sent November 23, 2016, Wednesday, 11:21 AM**

Btw, just to clear things up and avoid any drama(and don't get offended pls): I don't really want to us to be seen together.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

Excuse me?

 **From: Anna Seville**

C'mon, Brandon. I've seen the kind of girls you date. You don't want to be seen with someone that doesn't look like a model; and I don't want to be seen with a known asshole. I think that's more than fair.

 **From: Brandon**

'A known asshole'?!

 **From: Anna**

Yeah.

 **From: Brandon**

I am not…whatever! I'm nicer than you are!

 **From: Anna**

See, I'm meaner than you in my head, but people think I'm nicer. Don't feel bad, it's something that took me years to cultivate. You just don't know how to fake it.

 **From: Brandon**

You're mean to me!

 **From: Anna**

Yeah, you. Not the general public.

 **From: Brandon**

A known asshole? Really? Says who?

 **From: Anna**

Girls you 'date', mainly.

 **From: Brandon**

Why?

 **From: Anna**

The general consensus seems to be that you make them fall in love with you and then forget they exist? And that this behavior makes them cry?

 **From: Brandon**

Oh. That.

 **From: Anna**

You don't have to worry about that with me.

 **From: Brandon**

About what?

 **From: Anna**

I don't cry.

 **From: Brandon**

What do you mean 'you don't cry'?

 **From: Anna**

I mean, I don't cry.

 **From: Brandon**

What, ever?

 **Anna:**

Nope.

 **Brandon:**

What the fuck?

 **Anna:**

Also, you shouldn't take me being mean to you personally. I'm always mean to people I sleep with. Especially if I have no emotional attachment to them.

 **Brandon:**

You're hurting my feelings.

 **Anna:**

Please. Do you even have feelings?

 **Brandon:**

Yes! And you are hurting all 3 of them.

 **Anna:**

Oh, nice Carrie Fisher reference.

 **Brandon:**

Thanks.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent November 23, 2016, Wednesday, 1:01 PM**

Okay, but? Consider this: I am very attractive. In case you haven't noticed.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Charles Brandon**

Yeah? You're breathtaking. So what?

 **From: Brandon**

What do you mean so what?

 **From: Anna**

I mean what is your point?

 **From: Brandon**

That I'm very attractive, and lots of girls would love to be seen with me. Just saying.

 **From: Anna**

I'm sure they would. But if I was seen with you, it would ruin my street cred.

 **From: Brandon**

Your 'street cred'? Are you in a gang?

 **From: Anna**

The intellectual crowd can be just as cutthroat as the mafia. Don't joke about it.

 **From: Brandon**

Wow. I had no idea.

 **Anna:**

But I think it's unfair of you to brag about it? Or act like I don't know?

 **Brandon:**

How's it unfair?

 **Anna:**

The level of attractiveness is just unfair. On like, a human level.

I mean at first I was like, there's obviously something wrong with that guy. No one is that anatomically perfect. I figured you had an ugly belly button or something, like John Stamos.

 **Brandon:**

John Stamos has an ugly belly button?

 **Anna:**

Yeah, it's hideous.

But, no. Absolutely no physical imperfections. I know because I have seen all of you.

You're just a beautiful freak of nature.

 **From: Brandon**

Thank you?

 **From: Anna**

No problem.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

 **To: Henry Tudor**

 **Sent November 23, 2016, Wednesday, 3:12 PM**

How did you know my shoe size?

 **From: Henry Tudor**

It was on the sole of the shoe that broke.

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

You looked for it?

 **From: Henry**

I happened to see it.

 **From: Anne**

Oh my God. You looked for it.

 **From: Henry**

I didn't "look for it". I only saw it accidentally before I threw it out and happened to remember it.

 **From: Anne**

Sure.

 **From: Henry**

Do they fit?

 **From: Anne**

They do. Thank you.

 **From: Henry**

You're welcome.

 **From: Anne**

How did you know to get doc martens?

 **Henry:**

It was the first thing that came up online in the search.

 **Anne:**

Search for what?

 **Henry:**

Well, when I typed "shoes for tiny brunette girls to kick frat douchebags with that won't break" into Google, I got "doc martens, lace-up".

 **Anne:**

Really?

 **Henry:**

No. Get it together, Boleyn.

 **Anne:**

!

 **Henry:**

What?

 **Anne:**

You got me purple doc martens.

 **Henry:**

So?

 **Anne:**

I know how you know.

 **Henry:**

Know what?

 **Anne:**

That I like them.

 **Henry:**

It was available in that color. I don't know what you're on about.

 **Anne:**

It's the first thing under my Facebook likes.

 **Henry:**

If you say so.

 **Anne:**

I know, because when Mary asked "what do you want for Christmas this year?" I said, "I'll like some stuff on Facebook, and that should give you some ideas", and I did, and that was the last thing I liked, "purple doc martens"…and you looked it up!

 **Henry:**

That's really very interesting.

 **Anne:**

You looked it up, and you bought them for me.

 **Henry:**

Well, we know I bought them for you. I saw you ruin a pair and so I bought you another to replace them. Been over this. It was a noble gesture, I thought.

 **Anne:**

Of course.

 **Henry:**

Any other conspiracy theories you'd like to share?

 **Anne:**

You looked it up.

 **Henry:**

Christ, you're relentless.

 **Anne:**

Relentlessly right.

 **Henry:**

It must be nice up there.

 **Anne:**

Where?

 **Henry:**

Your head.

 **Anne:**

Yes, it's lovely.

 **Henry:**

It must be, thinking everyone's obsessed with you.

 **Anne:**

Not everyone. Just you.

 **Henry:**

ANYway…what are you up to?

 **Anne:**

I'm helping Mary dye her hair. You?

 **Henry:**

On my way to New York.

 **Anne:**

Flying?

 **Henry:**

Well, I'm certainly not walking.

 **Anne:**

You're not supposed to be texting! You have to turn it to airplane mode! Or wifi, if they have it, but not roaming…

 **Henry:**

They don't care about that on this one.

 **Anne:**

Oh. My. God.

 **Henry:**

What?

 **Anne:**

You're on a private jet!

 **Henry:**

No…

 **Anne:**

You have to be, because that's the only way they'd let you text on a plane.

 **Henry:**

Fine, Boleyn. I'm on a private jet. Your sleuthing skills are extraordinary. Happy?

 **Anne:**

I knew you had a private jet. I knew it.

 **Henry:**

No, you didn't "know it".

 **Anne:**

First time we hung out alone together and watched Amelie, I said you probably had a private jet that delivered your groceries.

 **Henry:**

It doesn't deliver groceries. We've been over that, too.

 **Anne:**

How do you know? How do you know what your jet does when you're not around?

 **Henry:**

You are truly ridiculous.

 **Anne:**

A private jet…you're the only one on it…wow. What kind of environmental impact is this, Tudor?

 **Henry:**

Terrible, I imagine. I might as well strangle an orca while I'm at it, hm?

 **Anne:**

Might as well.

 **Henry:**

I'll have you know I am not the only person on this jet. It's not as wasteful as you're making it out to be.

 **Anne:**

Really? Who else?

 **Henry:**

The pilot, the air hostess, my sister, Margaret.

 **Anne:**

And you.

 **Henry:**

Yes.

 **Anne:**

On. Your. Private. Jet

 **Henry:**

It's not a big deal.

 **Anne:**

Right, of course not. Every third or fourth person in the world has their own jet.

 **Henry:**

You're merciless.

 **Anne:**

I have new shoes, you looked it up, you're trying to downplay the fact that you're flying from Los Angeles to New York on a private jet…this is the best day of my liiiife.

 **Henry:**

You're easily amused, then.

 **Anne:**

Well, all Mary has to read are tabloids, so.

 **Henry:**

Funny, that's all Margaret has, too. Did you know that Jerry Seinfeld dated a 17-year-old high school student?

 **Anne:**

Yeah…but wasn't that in '93?

 **Henry:**

Our mom kept them. She used to always take them when she traveled, so now Margaret does it, too.

 **Anne:**

It's good to have something to remember people by.

 **Henry:**

That's why I read them, too.

 **Anne:**

I do that, too, but with the Bell Jar. Or the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. They were my mom's favorites.

 **Henry:**

Sounds like our mom's were a little different.

 **Anne:**

Besides the names.

 **Henry:**

Besides those.

 **Anne:**

My mom picked up the occasional tabloid.

 **Henry:**

My mom picked up the occasional book. Usually poetry. She loved Elizabeth Bishop.

 **Anne:**

'The art of losing isn't hard to master.' (I do, too.)

 **Henry:**

'So many things seemed filled with the intent/to be lost that/their loss is no disaster.'

She also liked Rilke, William Carlos Williams, e.e cummings…

 **Anne:**

Sounds like she did read.

 **Henry:**

Yeah, I guess she did. She'd have me read to her, sometimes.

 **Anne:**

That's sweet.

 **Henry:**

Sorry to get…heavy. I don't know how we started talking about this.

 **Anne:**

Neither do I, but it's ok. I like being able to talk to someone who understands it.

 **Henry:**

So do I.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent November 23, 2016, Wednesday, 4:30 PM**

What are you doing later?

 **From: Anna Seville**

Later is a state of mind, Brandon. Be more specific.

 **From: Brandon**

Fine, what are you doing later tonight?

 **From: Anna**

Oh.

You, probably.

 **From: Brandon**

Awesome.

Henry's not here.

 **From: Anna**

I don't care if he's there. We can just use your curtain.

 **From: Brandon**

You're not embarrassed?

 **Anna:**

No, why would I be?

 **Brandon:**

So you're fine if someone's in the same room when we're fucking but you don't want to be seen with me in public?

 **Anna:**

Yeah, pretty much

 **Brandon:**

WTF?

 **Anna:**

Don't ask me to explain it.

And it's not 'someone'. It's Tudor. He wouldn't tell anyone.

 **Brandon:**

Yeah, I guess you're right.

 **Anna:**

Of course I'm right. It's my sexiest attribute ;-)

 **Brandon:**

No.

 **November 24, 2016, Thursday, Thanksgiving, 1:03 PM**

"Hey."

Mary looks up from her textbook to see her sister standing in her doorway.

She didn't hear a knock- not because Anne hasn't learned her lesson about _that_ , she _definitely_ has - but because Mary left the door open. She's the only Sister at Beta Thau not going home for Thanksgiving, so she's basically holding down the fort until Jen comes back tomorrow.

"Hey, yourself."

"You seem busy," Anne says, wringing her hands, "I don't want to interrupt…"

"I'm doing calculus practice sets," Mary says, throwing her pencil down, "believe me, I am grateful for the interruption."

Mary watches, lying on her stomach, as Anne sits down on the edge of her bed, then sighs, gets up, and starts pacing.

"So…"

Mary trails off, leaving the space empty for Anne to fill, but Anne's just chewing on her nails, walking from the bed to the vanity to the bathroom door…

"What's up?" she prompts.

Anne stops pacing and points to the top of Mary's dresser.

There's folded flannel shirts, a puka shell necklace, and a brownie wrapped in plastic wrap on top of it.

"You don't wear flannel."

"Nooo," Mary says, closing her textbook and sitting up, "but Lizzy does."

"Is she…sleeping over a lot, or…?"

"No. This freshman girl was having some drama with her roommate, so she paid Lizzy to switch rooms so she could get a single."

"I see."

"She says she needs the money. "

"Okay…isn't that kind, of, um…soon?"

"It's not really that big of a deal. It's not like we're here all the time. She's either in class, studying, or at some M.M. store…"

"M.M.?"

"Medical Marijuana. She has a card."

"But yeah, she'll go to a few of those, to buy and then resell. And then I'm either studying, in class, at dance team rehearsal…and then we're both busy with sorority duties, of course. So it's a ships passing in the night situation."

"I mean…as long as you don't think it's too soon."

"I don't," Mary says, firmly, but not unkindly.

"Where is she now?"

"In Venice with her family."

"Oh."

Anne is standing in the middle of the room.

"You want to sit?" Mary offers.

"No, I better stand."

"Okay...hon. Much as I love the distraction, my Calc problems are starting to look more interesting than this lack of convo. So you want to tell me what this is about?"

"I have…a dilemma."

"Okay."

"It's just hard to tell you, because I'm afraid you'll think it's kind of…gross?"

"Probably won't, but go ahead. You've _warned_ me."

"I like someone."

"You're right. That's _disgusting_. Why would you tell me that?"

"Mary, this is serious."

"Okay, got it. Serious face," Mary promises, frowning as she does so.

"I like someone…"

Anne trails off, squeezes her eyes shut so hard her eyelids crinkle, and puts her hands over her face.

"That you've slept with," she confesses in a muffled voice.

"So…Henry."

"What? No!"

"No?"

"I mean, yes, but…how did you know?"

Her younger sister tugs at the hair near her scalp, fingers entwined in her dark waves, something she's done as long as Mary can remember- sometimes to relieve headaches, sometimes out of frustration or stress. Finals in the Boleyn house always came with strands of black hair on the floor, on the couch cushions, more than usual on the bottom of the tub.

Mary always picked them up when she found them. It wasn't like it was something she enjoyed, but she didn't want Anne to get yelled at by their father. She never handled that very well, maybe because it rarely happened. George and Mary were used to it, and so were never very much affected.

And George would sweep them up grab them and toss them with wet paper towels, too, so she felt she owed it to him. He never complained, either, or mentioned it to Anne.

"Well, I've only slept with two guys this semester, and I doubt you're poaching my exes from high school, given the distance thing…and I know you sure as shit don't like," here Mary makes an 'ick' face, sticking her tongue out, "Francis, so…"

"Oh."

"Also, I have eyes."

"What?" Anne asks, brow furrowing.

Mary pats the space on the bed next her. Anne comes over, grabs one of the pillows, hugs it, and sits down.

"Anne- you are aware that you and Henry are like, the will-they-or-won't-they couple of the moment?"

"…no?"

"You are. You guys should have your own teen soap on the CW. You're that ridiculous. _And_ obvious."

"Not really."

"People haven't shut up about your guys' kiss from that play since Tuesday. The sexual tension! The chemistry! You'd think they were reviewing something on Broadway. It's all anyone's been talking about."

"There were like, thirty people in the classroom! And why would anyone care?"

"Then they must have talked to their friends, then. And I assume the majority of the girls are jealous. Guys, too."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"Yes. You're a tad oblivious. But, anyway. Explain to me how it's 'gross'?"

"How isn't it? To want to be with him after he's been with my sister?"

"You're being ridiculous," Mary says, leaning over to grab her textbook and flipping it the page that has a sheet of her notes, "and I don't want to talk about this."

"Why?"

"Anne!"

Mary slams the book impatiently, and says, "you do realize you're calling Lizzy and I gross right now?"

"How-"

"Or did you forget that we've both slept with Henry and are together now?"

"Oh…yeah. Sort of," she admits sheepishly.

"College," Mary says, "is like a small ecosystem…oh, shit. That's a really good example. That's going to help me memorize it for my Bio exam," Mary says, grabbing a notebook and pen on her desk, flipping to a blank page and scribbling that down, "anyway. A small ecosystem. There's bound to be some overlap. Maybe it's not ideal, maybe it's even borderline, pseudo incestuous sometimes, but really, who cares?"

"'Who cares?'"

"Yeah. And I mean, really, what is gross?" Mary asks philosophically.

"A question for the ages," Anne quips dryly.

"I mean, it's really all about perspective. I once dropped a pair of sunglasses in a public toilet accidentally- I did that stupid thing where you put it over the collar of your shirt, but it was all loose-fitting and- anyway. They were Dolce and Gabbana, so I washed them with hot water and soap and put them back on like nothing had happened," Mary says in a breezy tone, missing Anne's horrified expression, "so, I mean, compared to that…it's not really gross at all!"

"And besides," she says, flipping to another page of her notebook and making a note about how exposure to germs increases immunity (Bio, again- _man, I am on a roll!_ ), "it's not like he was ever _inside_ of me, or anything. In the Biblical way, anyway. It was only a few blow jobs-"

"La, la, LAAA!" Anne shouts, putting her hands over her ears.

"Okay, be mature, please. I told you about that ages ago."

"What about…okay. But I'm your sister. I feel like liking him goes against some kind of code?"

"I mean, usually, yes? But I'm gay. So that kind of negates it."

"How so?"

"Well," Mary says, chewing on the end of her pen, pondering how to best explain it, "basically, one dick is the same as any other when you're lesbian. To me personally, anyway. I won't try to speak for everyone. But for me, honestly? I hardly remember any of them. I could not pick a single one out of a line-up if my life depended on it. It's all just a blur of dick."

"Lovely."

"Yeah. Icky memories. I am a victim of compulsive heterosexuality, basically."

"Oh, I read about that!"

"You did? Where?"

"I," Anne admits, picking at a loose thread on the pillow she's been holding, "did some research?"

"You did research about lesbians?"

"Well, it's about you. I should know stuff about it."

"You did lesbian research for me? That is _so_ sweet," Mary says, putting a hand to her heart.

Anne shrugs.

"All I ask," Mary says, "is that you don't sleep with any of my female exes. Should I have any."

"That seems fair," Anne says, laughing.

"Cool. Then I think we're good."

"What do you think about him?" Anne asks.

"Henry?"

Anne nods, gaze cast down on the pillow.

"My impression is that he has a good heart. He's…a little arrogant, maybe? But he obviously likes you a lot. So that makes me like him."

Anne smiles, say's "ok", and leans over Mary's notebook.

They start to talk about what she's expecting for the Bio final. The only science class Anne is taking this semester is Intro to Astronomy, so they talk about that, too. Anne says she doesn't like it, that she's sure she'd like an astrology class more, and why isn't that an option?

But the whole time, Mary is thinking about what Christmas. And what Anne's going to find when she gets home. And how happy she's going to be about it (well, Mary is pretty sure she will be, now that her sister's told her she likes Henry, it seems pretty much like a sure thing).

She can hardly wait.

 **From: Marina Tudor**

 **To: Henry Tudor**

 **Sent November 25, 2016, Friday, 9:46 AM**

Why aren't you at breakfast?

 **From: Henry Tudor**

Because I'm tired.

 **From: Marina**

Where were you this morning?

 **From: Henry**

In bed.

 **From: Marina**

No, I came into your room at 8 AM and you weren't there.

 **From: Henry**

Why were you in my room?!

 **From: Marina**

Why weren't you in it?!

 **From: Henry**

I had an errand to run.

 **From: Marina**

Why so early?

 **From: Henry**

Stop asking questions. I'll come downstairs in a few minutes, ok?

 **From: Marina**

Margaret says you kept smiling at your phone on the flight and that you wouldn't look up even when she called your named FIVE TIMES.

 **From: Henry**

Yes, well, I've learned how to tune out the younger Tudor voice.

 **From: Marina**

She thinks you were talking to a GIRL.

 **From: Henry**

I was talking to Brandon.

 **From: Marina**

She says he's hot. Is he hot?

 **From: Henry**

Couldn't say.

 **From: Marina**

Is he hotter than Oscar Isaac?

 **From: Henry**

I don't know.

 **From: Marina**

Ok, but…is he hotter than Oscar Isaac with a beard?

 **From: Henry**

You're 14. Please stop saying men with beards are hot.

 **From: Marina**

But is he?


	17. Chapter 17

**November 26, 2016, Saturday, 10:05 PM**

Brandon got the invite to this party yesterday via text message. The theme is "post-family madness". It's something only Jennifer Parker could come up with, something only she could make successful.

The concept is pretty ingenious, he has to admit: everyone has to bring a piece of luggage (the idea being that most everyone is flying or driving back either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday). Those that are smart travel on Saturday, knowing it's a good compromise between upsetting your family ("But we never get to see you!") and not being driven totally crazy by them ("Mom, Dad, I'd love to stay, but I need a day to adjust my sleeping schedule with the time zone change/meet up with my study group for finals…gotta pass, tuition's steep, your pockets, gotta ace them", etc.).

Admission is a $5 cover charge and a suitcase (which only Jen gets to inspect, to make sure they have at least a few things in them, and that none of them are dirty clothes) to be auctioned off, contents unknown.

It's very _Storage Wars_.

The vibe is chill. Brandon passed a long table loaded down with comfort food when he walked in: mac n' cheese, chips, mashed potatoes, and an open ice cooler full of mini Ben & Jerry's.

Right now he's standing in line with his little rollaway, waiting to turn it in. There's a drug deal going on behind him, which isn't too surprising. The biggest drug dealers on campus are always thrilled this week. Both pre-finals and post-holidays ( _and pre-holidays, come to think of it_ ), it's their busiest time of the year.

Brandon smirks, thinking of how horrified Jen would be to know that there's probably going to be a pharmacy-stocked level of Adderall, Ritalin, Xanax and caffeine pills in her precious House.

The two people behind him have disappeared by the time he makes it to Jen.

She's seated at a card table, a sizable pile of luggage by her feet, a notebook open with a pen lying neatly across it in front of her.

"Hey, Jen," he says, sliding his suitcase on to the table, "how was your break?"

"Fine, Brandon," she says, unzipping it, "do you have a ticket?"

He flashes her the paper ticket stub he got after paying at the door, and a smile along with it.

He puts his hands in his pockets and whistles as he waits, looking around the room. He's early, but he assumes more people will be coming later. Different flight times, and all that.

"Brandon," she says, folding her hands, "all you have in here is a bottle of hot sauce and a pack of gym socks."

" _Brand new_ gym socks," he points out.

Jen tugs at the collar of her green button-down blouse, her mouth pressed in a tight line.

"It's all my mom gave me when I visited," he says with a shrug, "sorry."

"The text said there had to be at least four things per bag."

"I know, I'm sorry…I can pay extra for the cover charge, if you want," he offers.

"I don't know…"

She trails off and rubs her temples. She looks stressed. Not that that's unusual, she kind of seems high-strung by default.

The text he got from Anna comes back to his mind. It's been bothering him the last few days. Maybe something about the phrasing: _"a known asshole"_. Like it was definitive.

"You look nice," he says.

"Don't suck up," she snaps.

"I'm not," he insists.

He maybe kind of is, but she _does_ look nice: her face has that glittery weird stuff girls are always gushing about (something about contour? highlighting?), but it looks good on her, makes her cheekbones seem sharp, the gold shimmer complimenting her pale green eyes. Her mouth's glossy, cheeks rosy, blonde hair curled around her shoulders. She has some sort of white-lace thing that's peeking under the open buttons on her blouse. He can't really recall what that's called either ( _cami? bralette? why do girls have so many words for shit_ ), but it has a nice overall effect.

"Thanks," she says softly, admitting, "I try really hard, you know?"

"It shows," Brandon reassures.

"It does?" she asks, sounding disappointed.

"No, I mean…in a good way. You throw the best parties on campus, no one disputes that. All the girls I talk to want to rush Beta Thau, or wish they were in it. I even liked that masquerade thing, and I thought it'd be like, really girly and shit, but that…was lit. The sword-fighting and the effects were awesome. Really."

"Thank you."

She looks over his shoulder, then behind hers, before admitting, "my break was terrible, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah…God, I fucking hate my parents," she says, almost as if it's an after-thought.

"Can't say I know the feeling," he says apologetically, scratching the back of his head, "well, one of them actually, but he's not around so it's…ah…more or less irrelevant."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's alright."

She sighs, zipping up his suitcase.

"This is fine. I'll just throw in some books or something."

"Thanks."

"Don't tell anyone I'm cutting you slack, though, or they'll expect-"

"I won't. Promise."

 **November 26, 2016, Saturday, 10:59 PM**

Anne's _maybe_ drunk. She had some Mike's. And maybe a- iced tea? _Iced tea something, something iced_ _tea_ …but it did _not_ taste like any sort of iced tea she's ever had before.

Like, _at all_.

She's been helping Jen, Mary and Lizzy set up suitcases for the auction since 9 o'clock. Drinking in between. Her hands were shaking, and she had wanted to still them.

They're definitely still now, but instead of her hands shaking she feels like her insides are buzzing. And also, somehow, at the same time, falling in waves.

Henry texted her that he'd be at the party.

But he is not here.

He is not here yet.

But there- oh, there he is. He's standing in line to turn his suitcase in to Jen. He sees her and waves, and she waves back, surprised that she can still use her hands, that they work in the same way they usually do.

"I think he was waving at me."

Anne turns- she'd been standing outside on the porch, taking peeks through the sliding glass door sporadically when she'd finally caught Henry's eye-to see Brandon, smoking a cigarette.

 _Where'd he come from?_

"What's your problem with me?" she snaps, bold, even for her, nervous energy coursing through her veins at the immediate confrontation she just instigated.

"Take it easy."

"I'm not going to."

"You're wasted. I don't have a problem with you. I don't _think_ about you."

"Why did you say you saw Henry giving Mary cash after she slept over? Why would you say that? Hm?"

"What?"

"Don't lie. Valois said that's how he got the idea. _Sounds_ like something you would do."

"Fine," he admits, shrugging and taking a drag, "I kind of remember saying that."

"Why would you say that?!"

"Because that's what happened."

"He was paying her back for buying coffee. You _knew_ that."

"I didn't tell him to start a rumor about your sister. Relax."

"But you knew what that implied."

"I guess," he drawls.

"Why? She turn you down, too?"

She notices when his jaw clenches, but Anne plows on:

"You know, I know you don't like me, but what'd _Mary_ ever do to you? She's literally the sweetest person I've ever known, and I'd say that even if she weren't my sister. She didn't deserve that."

"Look, I-"

"So, what? Was it just to get back at me?"

Brandon stubs his cigarette out against the porch railing.

He leans against it and glares at her.

"It _was_ , wasn't it? _God_ , you're pathetic."

" _I'm_ pathetic? That's rich. You're all full of yourself, when you're just one of a hundred girls following Henry around, and none," he laughs, pulling his hands over his face like he's trying to rub away a headache, " _none_ of you have got a fucking clue."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're barking up the wrong tree," he says with a sneer, "let's just leave it at that."

"Brandon, what the fuck- you know what? I'm not doing this. I'm not playing into your little mind games, when you obviously have NO idea what you're talking about-"

"He's _engaged_."

 **11:05 PM**

Brandon's coursing with adrenaline over the bomb he just dropped, at finally, finally saying something that shut her up.

Before she was a thousand feet of fury, and now she looks very, very small.

"Engaged…to what?" Anne asks in a small, disbelieving voice.

"Engaged to be _married_ ," he says smugly.

Her hands start to tremble and she shoves them in the pockets of her jeans.

"What," he mocks, "you didn't know that? You two don't tell each other everything? Aw, and I thought you two were _close_."

"You're so full of it-"

"You think I'm lying?"

 **11:06 PM**

She'd like to think he is, but…he's too cocky, too happy, too pleased to be telling her this news for it to be anything but true. Anne knows this with a certainty that feels like it's sinking her.

Somehow she knew there had to be a catch. When Mary had told her she was okay with it, she knew there had to be something else, knew there had to have been something wrong with Henry beyond the flaws she had begun to find endearing: his arrogance, his impatience, the insecurities he tried to mask and pass off as pride…

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

 **11:07 PM**

She remains silent, just stands there, looking at him like he's just crushed all her hopes in one fell swoop.

He thinks of what Anna said, again. _"A known asshole."_ But it's too late now, and she's the one that egged him on, and there's no way he's backing down from someone that just called him "pathetic".

She stays silent, but she stays, so he answers his own question.

"Let's see…she's Spanish. Got that hot, older-woman thing going on. She's…God…I want to say 23? I think it's 23. They didn't start dating till he was 18, though, so it's nothing _too_ scandalous. Three year age difference. She's pretty. Auburn hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and she's like…five feet tall. Nice body. _Super_ religious, though, won't give it up till they're married."

Anne's eyelashes flutter, so he adds, to really hit the point home, "I guess that's where you come in, huh?"

"Stop," she says, voice barely a whisper, "I don't want to hear-"

"Oh, and _God_ is she rich! And her parents and his dad are _really_ close, good friends. So I can't really see them breaking up, ever. Gee…did I leave anything out? No," he says, really more to himself, "I think you know just as much as I do now! You're all caught up. Hey, maybe now we can _both_ be his buddies, huh? I don't mind sharing him if you don't."

Anne sways slightly, grips the railing, and swings both of her legs over. Barely landing on the grass outside the porch, she takes off in a run.

 **November 26, 2016, Saturday, 11:21 PM**

Anna's putting all the clothes from her suitcase away into her dresser drawers (clean, thank _God_ for parents and their coin-free washers and dryers, she thinks) when she hears the door swing open behind her.

She looks up to see Anne, standing in the doorway, wiping tears from her face, hiccupping.

"Anne, what's wrong?!"

Anna rushes over to her, taking her friend's hand.

"You know how you said I was asking for trouble?" Anne asks.

"What?"

"When Henry was here?"

"Oh. Yeah?"

"You were right!" she exclaims, collapsing into full-fledged sobs.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Mary Boleyn**

 **Sent November 26, 2016, Saturday, 11:30 PM**

Can you come to our dorm?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

I don't think so, Jen still needs my help with the auction. What's going on?

 **From: Anna Seville**

It's Anne. Well, it's an Anne and Henry thing.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

What happened?

 **From: Anna Seville**

I don't really want to get into it, but she's really upset. I think she'd really like you here.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

Okay, I'll be over ASAP.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Megan Sheldon**

 **Sent November 26, 2016, Saturday, 11:32 PM**

Hey, are you busy tonight?

 **From: Megan Sheldon**

Well, I'm unpacking…why, what's up?

 **From: Anna Seville**

Anne emergency.

 **From: Megan Sheldon**

Anne doesn't have emergencies.

 **From: Anna Seville**

Yeah, exactly.

 **From: Megan**

I see. I mean, we're not super-close…I don't know if she'd want me there?

 **From: Anna**

We have to do some sleuthing. Of the Internet variety. I know a little bit about it, but since I know it's more of your specialty…

 **From: Megan**

That's actually going to be awesome practice for my final. I'll be over later tonight.

 **From: Anna**

Ok, thanks so much.

 **November 26, 2016, Saturday, 11:59 PM**

"So, how does this help with your final?" Anne asks, taking a careful sip from the cup of hot cocoa that Mary made her.

She's changed from her party clothes (jeans and a red sweater) into more comfortable ones. She's wearing a Whitehall sweatshirt and yoga pants, her hair pulled away from her face in a loose bun, feet in slippers.

Anna's sitting on her bed, Megan sitting next to her with her laptop. Anne and Mary are sitting on Anne's bed, Mary rubbing soothing circles onto her sister's back.

She had managed to escape the party by lying and telling Jen that Anne was sick. Jen had actually let her go pretty easily (she had been in a better mood than usual, _who knows why_ ), although Henry had overheard and asked, "Anne is sick?" with genuine concern in his voice. Mary had given him the coldest, curtest "yes" she could muster, which had seemed to puzzle him.

"Well," Megan says, typing onto her laptop, "the class is Intro to Hacking, so…"

"I didn't know we had that! What the hell," Anna says, "that sounds awesome."

"Yeah, it is but the prereq's are insane. Big job market, so getting in is super-competitive."

"Remind me to go on the waitlist," Anna says.

"Do they really call it hacking? Isn't it called something different when you get paid to do it?" Mary asks.

"I guess," Megan says, "but euphemisms don't change the essence of their original concepts."

"Right," Mary says, nodding.

 _Whatever that means._

"Okay," Megan says, "so, most people don't know this, but there's actually a pretty simple URL you can put in to see who on Facebook looks at your page the most."

"Oh my God! Can you write that down for me?" Anna asks.

"Sure."

Mary shoots Anna a _"this isn't about you"_ look.

"What?" Anna says, "I want to know who's obsessed with me. It's important."

"So I pulled up Henry's."

She turns the screen around to show everyone, then puts it back in her lap.

"The person that looks at his page most is…Charles Brandon, actually."

"Ugh."

"What," Anna asks, "he's not _that_ bad-"

"He's the one that told me. He was really mean about it," Anne says, hugging her knees to her chest.

" _Oh_."

Anna starts chewing on the end of her braid.

"Do you know what her name is?" Megan asks.

"He said it was Katherine."

"Ah…yeah. Katherine Aragon is the person who's viewed his page the second-most. Let me pull her up."

Megan searches the name and finds the profile.

"It's set to private," she says, "but I can fix that pretty easily…here."

She passes the laptop to Anne, who says, "wow, that was fast."

Megan shrugs, rolls her shoulders and cracks her back.

 **November 27, 2016, Sunday, 1:04 AM**

 _She_ _ **is**_ _pretty_ , Anne thinks as she scrolls down the page.

Everything adds up. It says on her profile that she's 23, that she was born in Madrid, Spain, that she's Roman Catholic…it doesn't _say_ she's rich, exactly, but the photos she posts seem to suggest that.

Her 'likes' include pomegranates, the Pope, horseback riding, and the United Nations…but there's nothing in her relationship status. Absolutely nothing.

"It doesn't say she's in a relationship," she says, "it doesn't say…anything. I guess she didn't check any of the boxes?"

"It doesn't say anything on Henry's profile, either," Mary says, checking the Facebook app on her phone.

"That's weird," Anna says.

"Let me see if I can find anything else. But first," Megan says, putting a hand over her mouth and yawning, "do you guys have any soda?

"Yeah, I think we do," Anna says, getting up and walking over to Anne's desk and sitting down to open the door on the mini-fridge underneath it, "is Coke ok?"

"Perfect."

"Sorry we're keeping you up so late. I really appreciate this," Anne says.

"It's no big deal. I like cracking a mystery as much as the next girl."

 **1:25 AM**

Twenty minutes and four decimated serving-size Ben & Jerry's later, Megan gasps.

"Okay, I found something _really_ interesting…back in August, she posted engagement photos. One photo of him kissing her cheek, another one of this, like, _ridiculous_ , could-sink-the-Titanic ring, and an announcement. But they were deleted on the same day they were posted."

"So it's true," Anna says, looking at the screen over Megan's shoulder.

"Yeah, but? It gets weirder. On the same day she posted them, he tagged her in an 'open relationship status.'"

"Cold," Mary observes.

"So maybe they're open?" Anne says.

"Maybe," Megan says, "want to check it out?"

Anne nods, so Megan passes her the laptop again.

"I don't know what this means," Anne says, passing it to Mary, "but I'm tired."

"It could mean they're open _and_ engaged. Weird, but not impossible," Anna says.

"Could be. My theory is that they're engaged but that it's secret for some reason. She seems pretty conservative from her profile, so I doubt _she's_ dating other guys. Maybe he just wants to date other girls," Megan says.

"Or maybe he's an asshole," Anne says.

"No one here is arguing with that," Mary reassures her.

"Why would she put up with that, though? She's so beautiful, I'm sure she could find someone that would put her first," Anna says.

"The heart wants what it wants?" Megan postulates.

"Brandon said something about her being rich, about her parents and Henry's parents being close…could that have anything to do with it?"

"Definitely possible," Megan says, "people have gotten engaged for stranger reasons than pleasing their parents, for sure."

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Lizzy Blount**

 **Sent November 27, 2016, Sunday, 1:25 AM**

Ok, babe, a little head's up on the whole Henry-Tudor-is-engaged thing might've been helpful!

 **From: Lizzy Blount**

Oh…sorry? I didn't know you kept up with that?

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

What?

 **From: Lizzy**

It is really surprising, though. He loved Elizabeth York so much, everyone thought he would be a widower forever…

 **From: Mary**

What? Are you? Talking? About?

 **From: Lizzy**

Henry Tudor and Elizabeth York, Henry's parents. What are YOU talking about?

 **From: Mary**

No, babe…Henry Tudor II is engaged. Son, not father.

 **From: Lizzy**

Whaaaattt? No way.

 **From: Mary**

Apparently.

 **From: Lizzy**

Well, you're probably regretting giving him the go ahead with Anne then…

 **From: Mary**

You think?

 **Lizzy:**

AND that information to help him...well, I feel bad for sleeping with him, too!

 **Mary:**

Apparently they're open, but still.

 **Lizzy:**

Oh. Well, not as big a deal, then.

 **Mary:**

Not a big deal?! I don't want my sister to get involved with someone she can't have a future with. That is nothing if not a road to heartbreak.

 **Lizzy:**

True, I guess…well, "engaged ain't married," as they say.

 **Mary:**

Who, Lizzy? Who says that?

 **Lizzy:**

Michael in the Office. Engagements can be broken, that's all.

 **Mary:**

Ugh. I could kill him, I swear.


	18. Chapter 18

**From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent November 27, 2016, Sunday, 12:38 PM**

Want to hook up later tonight?

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Charles Brandon**

Hell nope.

 **From: Brandon**

Are you busy?

 **From: Anna**

Not even a little bit

 **From: Brandon**

Not in the mood?

 **From: Anna Seville**

Oh, I'll be in the mood for sex. Just not with you.

 **From: Brandon**

Because…?

(Read 12:49 PM)

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

(Sent 1:30 PM)

Why not?

 **November 27, 2016, Sunday, 3:00 PM**

Anna and Anne have a Spotify studying playlist on. Anne is going through flashcards, still wearing the sweatshirt and yoga pants from last night.

Anna is typing up a story for her Creative Writing class (the test and timed, and she'll be damned if she's not going to have some idea about what she'll be writing, regardless of the fact that her professor wants it to be "spontaneous and organic" and whatever other hippie words she uses every week).

There's a knock on the door. They look up at each other at the same time, Anna bemused and Anne startled.

"Are we expecting anyone?" she asks.

"No…"

"Maybe we can just ignore it."

"Could be important."

"Could be a serial killer."

Anna gives her friend a ' _please_ ' look.

"I think I know who you think it could be."

Anne pulls the blankets on her bed up around her legs, making herself a little half-way cocoon.

"If it's him, I'm not here. But I think you should just ignore it."

"Yes, because _that_ always works," Anna says, putting her laptop down on her bed and getting up to answer the door.

Anna cracks the door open.

 _Quelle surprise_ , it's Henry Tudor.

Anne's bed is out of sight of the immediate doorway, closer to the window, but erring on the side of caution, Anna opens the door and actually leaves the dorm to talk to him in the hallway.

His hair's standing up, messy, like he just rolled out of bed.

"What's up, Tudor?" she asks, crossing her arms.

"Nothing, just…is she ok?"

"Um…"

"Isn't she sick?"

"… _yes_. Yes, she is."

"Is she here?"

"No, she's…"

 _Fuck_.

"…at the nurse. Getting some ibuprofen and stuff."

"Oh. Alright," he says, "well…"

He pushes a gift bag towards her, lamely. It's gold and white, tied with a ribbon on top.

"Aw," Anna says, taking it, "for me?"

He rolls his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"It's just…some stuff I had. For colds."

"You're well stocked," she says, rummaging through, it.

There's Echinacea extract, B-12 vitamins, tea, Emergen-C, Tylenol, Nyquil, honey, lozenges, a tiny plastic bottle of ginger ale, an orange…

"You had all this stuff just on hand, huh?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Uh- _huh_. Well, I'll tell her you stopped by."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

 **November 28, 2016, Monday, 9:39 AM**

It's overcast this morning, a rarity in Los Angeles (though it _is_ nearly December). Most of the sky is the color of dirty snow, but there are some darker grey clouds scudding the horizon.

Anna wonders if it's going to rain. Given the drought and all the recent laws enacted because of it, she doubts it, but anything is possible.

She's been waiting outside the library for what feels like _forever_. She wanted to beat the line for the printers so that she could print out all the notes she's saved for her Chemistry class. They're doing a lecture reviewing everything today, and her plan was to highlight everything in her notes that's mentioned in class.

She had hoped against hope that somehow, lurking outside the library with a hangdog expression would inspire pity in a librarian or janitor, that they _might_ open up early for her.

No such luck.

"Hi."

Anna looks up to see Brandon, standing with a backpack slung over his shoulder, a sheepish grin on his face.

He looks very Marlon Brando right now- leather jacket, jeans, white t-shirt. _His_ _ **ridiculously**_ _attractive face,_ she thinks, somewhat regretting the decision she made to _not_ sleep with him last night.

 _Or maybe James Dean_?

"Hey," she says, starting to pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie.

He sits down next to her on the bench.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Kind of."

"What was it?"'

She really doesn't want to look at him, because if she does she will be hypnotized by the gorgeousness and her willpower will disappear. She _knows_ this.

"You know Anne's my friend, right?"

"I guess I've seen you two hanging out, yeah."

"Connect the dots, dude."

It takes him a while, brow furrowed, but then he sighs and she thinks she sees something like realization pass over his face, then a grimace.

" _Oh_ …well-"

"Like, _how_ did you think that was a good idea?"

"Why are you mad, though? You don't think she deserved to know?"

The fact the he managed to throw down some logic seems unfathomable to her in this moment.

Wait- was that it? Why else is she mad at him? His eyes are brilliantly, _stupidly_ blue and she's having trouble racking her brain for the reason…

"She said you told her in a mean way," she manages, but it sounds lame, weak even to her ears.

"I was…probably harsher than I should've been, yeah," he admits, "she sort of…antagonized me. She was drunk and she started-"

"What, your excuse is 'she started it?' Are you in third grade?"

"I'm not making excuses. Just trying to explain."

"Fine, you explained," she says, pulling the books on her lap up to her chest.

"So are we good?"

"If you apologize."

"Okay…I'm sorry I was mean to your friend. Honest."

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"Oh, come _on_ -"

"I'm serious."

He tugs at the collar of his jacket and groans.

"Is angry sex off the table?"

"Definitely off."

"What about angry sex _on_ a table?"

"Brandon!"

"Sorry."

They sit in silence. She gets so uncomfortable that she actually takes her phone out. Her headphones are wrapped around and she's unwinding them, getting ready to listen to music when:

"You really think you can abstain from sex?"

"With you, sure."

"Exactly. With _me_."

"I see your ego is just fine," she says, rolling her eyes, "but it's up to you, really."

He shrugs, then gets up.

"See you in Chem, Seville."

" _Bye_ , Brandon."

 **November 28th, 2016, Monday, 11:04 AM**

Anna doesn't understand _how_ it happened, exactly, but she came in a minute late to class. The only seats available were in the very last row.

This time of year always makes her think of her ex. He was a weirdo about the holidays-like, super-obsessed with them. Christmas sweaters and everything. He was more excited for holiday drinks at Starbucks than she was. They did twelve days of Christmas (regardless of the fact that she's Jewish, but hey, she wasn't about to complain about twelve gifts from her boyfriend plus the eight from her parents).

(So, okay, she _knows_ the reason she was late was because she was kind-of-sort-of-maybe Facebook stalking him and his new girlfriend, but it's not like she wants to _admit_ that, even to herself.)

It's not even that it's such a big deal that she's this far back. This professor tends to drone, his voice one that could push even the most caffeinated of brains towards a nap, so she'll stay awake. All she really needs is to see the slides, and the font's huge so that's not a problem.

But she hates being late, so she's _already_ agitated when Brandon slides into the back row.

Her agitation doubles when he sits _way_ closer to her than is strictly necessary.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling his notebook out, "do you have a pen?"

"How do you not bring a _pen_ to class?"

"Because I don't."

Anna scoffs, but digs through her purse and hands him one anyway.

"Just give it back, alright?"

"Sure…if you give me your underwear first."

She coughs, grabs her water bottle and takes a swig.

"You're depraved," she says hotly, wiping her mouth (she spilled a little) with the back of her hand.

" _Deprived_ ," he corrects.

"Sex isn't oxygen, Brandon. Maybe if you paid more attention in this class, you'd know that."

"It is to me," he says, leaning over and doodling a heart on her paper ( _what the fuck is_ _ **that**_ _about?_ ), "and it is for you, too. You just don't want to admit it."

Anna feels like she's about to explode in a billion little pieces.

But she will be damned if she lets him see that she feels that way, so she gets as close as she can possibly get to his ear and whispers, "so help me God, if I get _any_ less than an A on this final because you've decided that this is up-the-sexual-tension hour, not only are we _never_ having sex again; on any day we are inevitably in a class together, on any day we happen to be at the same party, I will blow you a kiss. And after that, I will leave, to the bathroom, probably. And when I come back to our mutual class or party, just know that, if I _was_ wearing underwear in the first place, they are now _gone_ , and _you_ will have to know that you can't do a goddamn thing about their absence."

He grips the table and she pulls away, leans back in her seat, crosses her legs primly and highlights some random passage in her notes.

She has a feeling he won't be bothering her anymore.

 **November 29th, 2016, Tuesday, 10:58 AM**

Henry takes a seat across the assigned tutoring table from Anne, his usual spot.

"Feeling better?" he asks, putting his notebook down on the desk and dropping his bag off his shoulder onto the floor.

"What?"

"Mary said you weren't feeling well…wasn't that why you left the party in such a rush the other night?"

"Right. Yeah. Sorry," she says, tugging at a lock of hair that's come loose from her braid, "I'm a little distracted."

"That's okay," he says, "want to talk about it?"

"No, we need to work on your French," she says, opening her file.

Henry opens his notebook to a blank page, takes out the pen he's had tucked behind his ear, and pushes it towards her.

"Here, you can write it down."

"We're not passing notes."

He gives her an easy smile. She's obviously kidding around, but if he didn't know her any better he'd think she was serious.

"Okay, sure, we're 'not passing notes'-"

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd just do your work like everyone else," she snaps, "do you think you can do that for me?"

Henry has no idea why she's so upset. She looks tired, maybe, but he's talked to her when she's been tired before and she's never spoken _that_ harshly to him.

"Sure," he says, trying to brush it off, "I have the study outline here…"

"Great, so do I," she says, opening her file and taking out the first sheet of paper on top, "let's begin."

 **11:55 AM**

Henry watches the rain hit and fall against the windows in uneven patterns, drumming his fingers along the table as Anne reads over his work.

She pushes it towards him.

There's only two red marks, which is a lot better than he usually does.

"I have to leave a little early today," Anne says briskly, shutting her file and closing it with a paper clip.

She gets up from her seat and turns the file in with the others, then returns to their table, grabbing the coat from her chair.

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all.

Henry shoves the paper and his notebook in his bag, crinkling it as he does so, rushing to follow her out of the room.

"Why are you mad?" he asks when he catches up to her and her brisk pace.

"I'm not mad," she says, putting her hands in her pockets, "I just have to go."

"Wait, what's-"

"I have to study, Henry! Not everyone's parents pay for school, you know. I know that's a _completely_ foreign concept to you, but some of us have to maintain certain GPAs so that we can continue our-"

" _Hey_ ," he snaps, starting to get annoyed, "I have friends on scholarships, don't talk to me like I don't-"

She shoves her way through the throng of students in the hallway, and he struggles to keep up.

"Excuse me, sorry-"

She waits at the elevator, her posture stiff.

Henry manages to make it into the elevator next to her by the time the doors open.

There's no one else inside but the two of them.

"Leave me alone," she says, voice scarcely a whisper.

"Tell me what's wrong and I will."

Anne pounds the "R" button and crosses her arms, sighing dramatically and shaking her head as the doors close.

"You're studying on the _roof_?"

"Yes."

"It's raining."

"What can I say," she says, voice flat, gaze fixed on the closed doors, "I like ink stains."

She's the first to leave when the elevator dings.

He follows her outside, shielding his eyes from the rain.

Usually there's a few people up here, soaking up the sun rays, and some Friday nights there's illicit parties, candlelit parties; hosted at a location that's only open during the day and forbidden by administration otherwise.

But because it's raining, they're alone.

"Anne, wait-"

"Don't follow me!"

He gets a strange, sudden, overwhelming feeling of déjà vu. His head twinges, as it comes back:

 _…she stalks through the forest, crushing branches in her wake._

 _"Anne, wait-"_

 _"Don't follow me!"_

 _"Anne!"_

 _He chases after her, a red blur, the long train of her gown trailing behind her through the leaves on the ground…._

 _Her coat is red (_ _she's wearing a red gown_ _), she has lipstick on, lipstick the color of apples and sin (_ _her mouth is stained red, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen_ _)_ _her hair is splayed across her back in bountiful curls (_ _hair flowing around her shoulders_ _) and she is running, (_ _he chases after her_ _) she has been running away from him and he is following her (_ _ **he**_ _chases after_ _ **her**_ _…but that_ _can't_ _be right, because Henry doesn't follow girls, he waits for them to follow him, except if_ _that's_ _true, then what is he doing now?)._

 _But this, this is not a dream._

 _Is it?_

 _"Please," he says, walking out to the center of the roof (there's shaded areas that could be protecting them from the rain but she's chosen to stand out in the open, maybe to dissuade him), "can you please tell me what's going on? This isn't like you-"_

 _"You don't really know what's 'like me', though," she shouts, the wind whipping around them, threatening to drown her out, "do you?!"_

 _"I think I know a little bit-"_

"I guess I just thought we were friends-"

"We _are_ friends-"

"Maybe even close friends, but-"

"We _are_ close-"

"But I was wrong! I shouldn't have assumed! It's not like we've even _known_ each other that long, really…"

 _Thirty days since their first dance, twenty-nine since his first dream about her, twenty since he found out she was his tutor, eighteen since she fell asleep on his shoulder, twelve since she opened up to him (and he opened up in return, more so than he ever thought possible, speaking to her of things he almost never spoke of), seven days since they kissed…_

Not that he's counting.

"We _are_ close," he insists again, "I've shared things with you I don't usually share with anyone."

She shrugs, wiping the rain out of her eyes, a futile gesture, as it's truly pouring now.

"You've told me about your past, but not your future."

"Oh, sure, sure… you know, I don't think that was _quite_ cryptic enough, maybe you can try-"

"You're _engaged_!"

 **12:01 PM**

"How…"

Henry looks around as if he's lost. His hair is completely plastered (though hers is probably not much better) to his forehead, and his schoolbag is utterly soaked. It would be a rather funny image, actually, if she were in the mood for laughing.

"Who told you that?" he asks, and she can barely hear him, his voice a whisper almost buried by the thundering rain.

She's glad her phone is tucked away on her inner-most jacket pocket, the one that zips from the inside, on the interior of her coat rather than the exterior, glad it's insulated and that she knows from the experience of the rainier East Coast that it'll stay dry.

"Does it matter who told me? Doesn't it just matter that I know?"

"I don't…" he runs a hand over his hair, and asks again, lamely, "who told you?"

Anne doesn't want to tattle, doesn't want to stoop to Brandon's level, gratifying as that might be. So, she settles on a lie of omission, a partial truth ( _tit for tat_ , she thinks).

"My friend takes an Internet hacking class," she says as the rain eases up, pulling her hood over her hair, "she looked into you, and told me."

Henry lifts the hood of his sweatshirt up as well, as if her doing so prompted a reminder that he had one all along.

"Who, who hacked me? Seville? I know she hates me-"

"God, would you get over that?! Not everyone has to like you! What is it with you and your constant need for approval? You're popular, you're charming, the world falls at your _fucking_ feet, what more do you want-"

He takes her hand, and to her it's a harsher interruption than if he had yelled back.

"You could've told me," she says, desperation staining her voice, feeling _desperate_ as he traces circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, almost absently, as if he doesn't know what he's doing, as if he's hypnotized, "I asked you to tell me something most people don't know, and instead of telling me you were engaged, you told me about your brother-"

Henry's hand stills, and he pulls away from her.

"No one," he says, voice harsh, " _no one_ knows about that, no one outside of my family. Not even Brandon."

"What do you mean 'no one knows about that'? When you search the Tudor family online, he has to-"

"NO! He doesn't! He erased him! He erased him like he doesn't exist, do you understand how much of the Internet he controls," he snaps, rubbing his temples, "of course, people know, people that were _around_ know, he's in pictures in old magazines and newspapers if you care enough to go find them, but everyone knows not to mention it to him, it's the one thing that will get a journalist kicked out of a press conference, it's the one thing that will get them _fired_ , actually."

"Henry-"

"And I told you! I told you and I had only known you for a _week_. And there are people I've known for _years_ , people I've spent a lot more time with, and I've _never_ told them. What does that mean? I don't know… _I_ don't know what that means."

Well, _she_ certainly doesn't know how to answer that question. She doesn't know how to answer a few questions of her own: Why does she feel like she's alight ever time he touches her? Why does she wake up and touch her mouth first thing, as if she's just been kissed and can scarcely believe it? Why does she feel like she's known him for a very long time (longer, even, than the amount of time she's been alive, which makes _no_ sense), that she's met him before?

 _What does_ _ **that**_ _mean, hm?_

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I…I don't know."

"So that's a no, then."

"I haven't been thinking about it much, lately, honestly-"

"You haven't been _thinking_ about your _fiancée_ __much lately? Do you realize how that makes you sound?"

"I know, like an asshole, but I'm…wait. Why do you care?"

"What?"

She's caught off-guard by the question. The wheels are spinning furiously in her mind: _why does she care? Well, shit, better think of something and quickly, quickly,_ _ **quickly**_ _!_

"Why would you care about whether I'm…engaged or not?"

"Because we're friends," she says, "and it's something that's important, and you didn't…tell me. Which means _I'm_ …not important."

He raises both eyebrows and crosses his arms, obviously reading her (she hopes she's illegible, she _feels_ illegible, scrambled, like a page after a printer jam, like a handwritten poem left outside in the rain).

"And it's kind of fucked up," she says, "that you're dating other girls when you're engaged."

"I think it's probably- more complicated than what-"

"You know what? I _really_ don't think it is."

"Anne, you don't-"

"Don't understand? But I do. You're engaged. You've promised someone you'll marry them. You will marry them, in your future, unless they change plans, or you change plans. That's what engagements are."

He covers his mouth with his hands and closes his eyes, slowly, as if he's exhausted.

"Anne," he says, voice hoarse-

"And by that token," she says, "and maybe you're right, maybe I shouldn't judge you, maybe you and-" she swallows, because it feels like something's stuck in her throat, then continues, "you and _her_ have some sort of agreement, and you can see people until the wedding, I don't, I don't know _anything_ , really, but-"

"Anne!"

He holds her shoulders and she can feel him looking at her, but she's not looking back. He strokes one thumb under her chin and raises it, gently, until she makes eye contact.

"Please," he says softly, "please slow down."

She takes a deep breath and he brings his hand back, puts it in his pocket.

"Maybe," she says, "maybe you can date. I don't know what the arrangement is, if there's an arrangement at all, but I _do_ know, that anyone you date is just a…. placeholder. Because you're…engaged."

"I…"

Henry trails off, looks down at the cement floor of the roof, as if there are some answers written there.

"Am I wrong?"

 _"You were taught that you were important. That your name was important and that you were too, for carrying it."/"Am I wrong?"_

She's not wrong. Two and a half weeks later, and she's not any less wrong than she was when she read him the first time. Back then, Anne had read him like a book that was just open in her hands for the taking, read him lazily, even, like she had had to read the passage about his importance before, like she had _memorized_ it without even trying.

"No. No, you're not wrong."

Anne nods, gives a tiny smile that doesn't quite reach her brown eyes, which are as dark and unfathomable as they were on the night he first met her.

" _Thank_ you," she says, her voice breaking, "for being honest."

And with that, she fixes her gaze on the elevator doors and walks away from him, from the rain, from his answers.

He's not going to follow her this time.


	19. Chapter 19

**author's note: hi! so again…with texting and italics and fonts and everything I have the hardest time formatting this story on here! I would really recommend reading it on archiveofourown, my username there is also boleynqueens and it's much, much smoother reading. I also update there more often than on this site because it's honestly just easier and less of a headache.**

 **lyrics from 'good together', 'girl at home', 'i know places', 'new romantics', 'welcome to new york', and 'demons' are not mine, they are just quotes, no copyright infringement intended.**

 **December 3rd, 2016, Saturday, 10:33 PM**

This is less of a party and more of a chill group study session: the music is Vitamin String Quartet and acoustic covers, there's more mugs filled with coffee than red cups filled with beer, more people with flashcards than people dancing.

Tom's grateful for that, at any rate, because he can play his guitar and no one bothers him.

"'Sup, Tom?" Anne asks, taking the open seat next to him on the couch.

Already that tips him off that the flute of pale gold liquid in her hand is probably _not_ sparkling cider. Anne doesn't say "sup". _Anna_ might. Mary… _might_ , but she's more likely to avoid it and a lecture about "proper English" by her younger sister.

"Just practicing," he says, pick in mouth.

She laughs, puts a hand on his shoulder- much touchier than she usually is. Literally the only person he's ever seen her hug is Mary.

"Are you drunk?"

"Um…"

Anne puts a finger on the tip of her nose, and then uses the same one to bop him on the nose:

" _Correct_!"

"Maybe we should get you some food, coffee…"

"I drink 'too much coffee'," she says petulantly, using air quotes, "and that's ' _bad_ for you'. Or so people say."

"Right," he says, taking his guitar and putting it back in its case, "but I think in this instance it's probably necessary-"

"Some _people_ can be bad for you, did you know that, Tom?"

"Yes, I do."

 _I think I'm looking at one of them._

"Can you tell me," she says, stirring her drink with a straw ( _wait-is she drinking champagne with a_ _ **straw**_ _?_ ), "what _is_ it about me, exactly, that makes me a magnet for guys with girlfriends?"

Anne bats her eyelashes prettily as she drinks from the straw, ending a slurp by biting it and sliding it out of her mouth.

"Anne…"

"I thought you _might_ have some insight," she says, waving a hand vaguely between the two of them, "because…you know."

" _O_ kay, I think you've-"

"I mean, is it something about the way I wear my hair or… is it my bubbly personality? What _is_ it about me, exactly, that screams, 'Future Mistress'?"

She makes an expansive gesture on that last point and some of the drink ends up sloshing over, at which point he eases it from her hand and sets it on the table.

"What about me," she continues, not skipping a beat, "says 'Wannabe Homewrecker'? Because I have been _racking_ my brain and I just cannot seem to figure it- where's my drink?"

"Can't figure it out?" he prompts.

"I just can't…" she bends her head and her hair falls over her face, she pushes it back, "can you tell me what it is? Because maybe then it can stop happening, and I can like, _live_ my _life_ and shit…"

"There's nothing about you that says homewrecker," he reassures, trying to push her gently so that she's sitting upright, "but at the moment there's quite a bit about you that says 'wrecked'."

"Wrecked? I'm not a _ship_ -"

"Toasted, wasted, drunk, whatever expression suits your fancy."

" _Pssshhh_. What's this?" she asks suddenly, grabbing the sheet music that was sticking out of his pocket.

As she swoops in, Wyatt locks glances with a _quite_ miserable-looking Tudor.

"My final," he says, agitatedly pushing off the feet she's just started to rest against his leg, "listen-"

"Is this a duet again?" she asks, flipping through the pages, eyes bright.

"Yes."

"Wow. Your professor isn't Ryan Murphy, is he?"

"She. And no. But I think she _has_ probably watched every episode of Glee."

"These lyrics are all different," she says, "they don't match, they don't rhyme…?"

"The assignment was to put several songs together and make them like a conversation, to make them flow together, somehow."

"Oh, that sounds _fun_!" she chirps, clapping her hands, "let me sing it with you, _please_?"

"I will if you let me get you something to eat first. And wait a bit before we practice, because I'm surprised you can even read right now."

"Deal," she says, making a shotgun symbol with her hands and a clicking sound with her tongue.

 **December 3rd, 2016, Saturday, 11:00 PM**

 _The problem is, girls are boring._

Or, that's probably not really fair. What Brandon _means_ is, girls are boring compared to Anna Seville.

He's come to realize this in her absence.

They look up at him in adoration, or like they want to eat him up. He's never really minded this before, but Seville never looks at him like that (well, the second one, maybe a little bit, but she reserves that for private, which he honestly prefers-women looking at him in public like he's a dessert they're just dying to have makes him squirm, and not in the good way).

They don't bring up random bits of trivia in the middle of a conversation, or while they're buttoning up their sweaters after sex, or tug at his hair during.

The way Sevillelooked at him could best be summed by some of the first words she spoke to him out on the Beta Thau balcony: "you'll do."

And he misses it. He's not sure why, or what that may mean, exactly, but he does.

He doesn't enjoy the "call me's", doesn't enjoy kissing a cute girl in his Chem class that sidled up to him after he was done with the exam (he asked her to nip at his lip, just a little bit, like Seville did, and she barely grazed it, and apparently she didn't grasp the concept of 'middle ground', because when he said 'harder' she practically drew blood), doesn't even really enjoy it when a Beta Thau Sister blows him in the bathroom, can only come when he concentrates on what Seville whispered to him during their last Chem lecture.

So basically, somehow, she's ruined him.

Because here he is, at this 'end-of-the-world-as-we-know-finals' party, with only five week-days left in the semester, and he's _hoping_ to run into _Anne Boleyn_ , of all people. Of all the sentences he never thought would run through his mind, that one's definitely up there.

Becausehe cannot deal with the possibility of not having sex with Anna Seville one last time in 2016, before he has to go on a bus home for break. He _definitely_ can't deal with not having sex with her forever, just because he can't manage to quiet his pride.

He's been looking for her for fifteen minutes or so when he finally accidentally finds her, only because he went into the kitchen to see if he could find a bottle of water.

 **11:15 PM**

"Ooooh, _wooow_ ," Anne says, laughing as soon as she sees Brandon, dragging the last syllable and swinging her legs back and forth from her perch on the counter, "déjà vu."

"Yeah, listen-"

"You're not going to try to fuck me again, are you?"

 _Well, she's not making this easy._

Wyatt turns around from the sink, where he's washing dishes, and raises his eyebrows at Brandon.

"No," Brandon says, slowly, calmly, trying to rein in a few dozen snappy replies that just came to him, "I just wanted to talk to you."

"So talk," she says, scooping a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to her and shoving it into her mouth.

"Can you eat something else?" Wyatt asks, putting a plate in the drying rack, "that's basically air."

"Make me something," she says, licking the butter and salt off her fingers.

"Little busy here," Wyatt says.

"Brandon, it'll have to be _youuu_ ," she says liltingly, voice going up on the last word.

 _You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"Fine," he says with a smile, "that's just…that's fine."

Brandon goes over to the pantry and starts rummaging through.

He feels a chin on his shoulder.

"So what's _up_?" she asks.

"Can you get off of me?"

"Mmmm, few months ago I basically asked you the same thing and you were _very_ rude about it. So I think I'll be just as rude, if it's all the same to you."

Brandon sighs, grabbing a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread.

"On second thought, your cologne is fucking awful!" she exclaims, giggling and withdrawing.

On second thought, him making her food might not actually be the worst idea in the world. Taking the bread out of the package, finding a butter knife, opening the jar, none of these things require him to look at her as he speaks.

 _Might make it easier._

"Look," he says, as he unloads everything on the island, "I just wanted to say…I'm…"

"Stupid?" she fills in.

 _Be cool, be cool, be cool,_ he chants inwardly as he puts two slices of bread on the cutting board.

"Rude? Mayor of Dickville? The worst?"

"Look, I know I wasn't nice to you at the last party we were at. I just-"

"Brandon, you're _never_ nice to me at parties. Why mention it this time?"

"Boleyn," he says evenly, spreading peanut butter onto one of the slices, "have you ever heard the expression 'don't shoot the messenger'?"

"Brandon," she replies, matching his tone, "have you ever heard the expression 'don't deliver the message like an asshole'?"

"No, I haven't."

She glares at him.

"I haven't! That's not an expression. That's not something people say. But," he accedes, "fair point, I guess."

Anne gives him a scathing look, and he says, "okay, alright, _fine_ , fair point, point blank."

"I was an asshole," he says, slapping the two pieces of bread together.

"Yeah, you were."

"I'm _sorry_."

"What?"

"I said, 'I'm sorry'," he snaps, "don't make me say it again."

"Huh. Gracious _and_ handsome."

"You think I'm handsome?" he can't help but asking, surprised.

"Yeah, you're a handsome jerk," she says, picking the made sandwich up from the cutting board and saying, with a full mouth, "just like your _friend_."

"Right. Well…"

This doesn't seem like it's finished. Anna might not take his word, and Anne's tipsy at best, and who knows if she'll drink more as the night goes on.

"Can you do me a favor, actually," he says, patting his pockets, he finds an old receipt from the student café, and a golf pencil (still in there from an exam he took yesterday, he was probably supposed to return that, _oops_ ), scrawls the briefest message he can ('Brandon apologized'), "and sign this?"

Anne takes the scrap of paper he shoved at her, squinting at it

"You want me to sign something saying you apologized to me? Why?"

"Because you're drunk and you might not remember, and…honestly, I don't know if I'm a big enough _person_ ," he says, gritting his teeth, "to be able to apologize again, so-"

"Probably not," she says, but she takes the pen from him anyway.

 **From: Charles Brandon**

 **To: Anna Seville**

 **Sent December 3rd, 2016, Saturday, 11:14 PM**

[1 image attached]

Here.

 **From: Anne Seville**

 **To: Charles Brandon**

Interesting. And you made her do that why?

 **From: Brandon**

She's drunk. I didn't know if she'd remember.

 **From: Anna**

I've never seen her signature. It kind of looks like her handwriting, though, I guess.

 **From: Brandon**

So…?

 **From: Anna**

So, I would like some further confirmation. I will get back to you.

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent December 3rd, 2016, Saturday, 11:19 PM**

[1 image attached]

Is this your signature?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Hi. This is Tom.

 **From: Anna**

Where's Anne?

 **From: Anne (Tom)**

She's sitting on the kitchen counter, eating chips, and saying she's the greatest person to ever walk the earth.

 **From: Anna**

That doesn't sound like her…

 **From: Tom**

Nope, it's her narcissistic and extroverted cousin, Drunk!Anne.

 **From: Anna**

Ah. Why do you have her phone, though?

 **From: Tom**

She told me to take it from her. Said she was worried she'd "keep Instagram-stalking the pretty redhead girl."

 **From: Anna**

Oh no…

 **From: Tom**

Is she lesbian now or something?

 **From: Anna**

Not to my knowledge, no.

So hey, random question: do you know if Brandon talked to her?

 **From: Tom**

Yeah, he came in here a bit ago and apologized for something. I was washing the dishes, so I couldn't really hear what for.

 **From: Anna**

Ok, thanks.

 **Later that evening**

Tom's pulled two chairs from the dining room into the kitchen. He and Anne are practicing their respective parts (it _is_ good that he's practicing with another person, considering his final for Lyricism in Modern Music is in two days, but it might be better if it were with a _sober_ person), when Tudor walks in.

He stands in the doorway for a few beats, blinking like he's just stepped into some harshly bright light.

"Hi," he says, opening the cooler and grabbing a beer.

"Hi," Anne says, face pale, hand suddenly gripping the paper she's holding so tightly it becomes totally bent.

"Hi," Tom says, gaze flickering between the two of them.

Tom sits awkwardly as they stare at each other, drumming his fingers against the wood of his guitar.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

Tudor clears his throat, fishes a set of keys from the pocket of his jacket, flicks through them until he finds a tiny bottle opener, and uses it.

"Bye," he says, pocketing the bottle cap.

"Bye," Anne says.

"Bye," Tom mimics, watching the other guy's retreating figure, his quick gait almost comical.

"What was _that_ about?" he asks as soon as he's gone

"Dunno," she says with a shrug, "he's just weird, I think."

Tom studies her face-she's gnawing on her bottom lip, eyes glazed as if she's in a trance.

"Listen," he says, taking the strap of guitar up and over his shoulder and putting it in his lap, "I don't know if an acoustic performance is really the best idea."

 _That_ snaps her out of it.

"What? Why? You promised," she pouts, "I ate and had coffee and everything."

"Yeah, but…you know, Tudor obviously has a thing for you-"

" _Psssh_!" she exclaims, starting to bite her cuticles.

"And he's probably jealous, judging the way he was looking at me, or…us, earlier. And I don't want to disappear like Percy," he says quickly, "alright?"

"'Disappear like Percy?' Percy didn't disappear. He just took a job. It doesn't start until January."

"Well, I haven't seen him around in a while!" Tom says, panicked, throwing his hands up, "okay?!"

"Tom. I _literally_ saw him in Macroeconomics like, four days ago."

"Oh," he says, calming down a bit, "I didn't know."

"What does that have to do with-"

"It just kind of seemed like a weird coincidence to me. Y'know, one Henry disappears, another replaces him…"

"Another Henry replaces- we're not _dating_! I was _dating_ Percy. So he's not replacing him. You…what…are you even _saying_?"

"Nothing," he says, sighing, "I guess we can do the song."

"Yay!" she says, clapping again, "let's start again, I don't want to talk about Tudor _or_ Percy anymore."

 **12:39 PM**

"Okay," Jen says, "first, Tom, thank you for doing the dishes, I super appreciate that."

"No problem," he says, giving her a thumbs up as he tunes his guitar with the other hand.

"Right. Anyway, so the key of this is to look spontaneous but not actually _be_ spontaneous," she says as she paces through the kitchen, her hands folded behind her back, "so I have set some nice, colorful hand woven blankets in the corner of the living room, rather than the center, because that seems too obvious. So you're going to sit there, start like, riffing a little bit, and I'm going to start fiddling with the speakers, like 'oh no, these don't seem to be working', and then you'll start and I'll be like, 'oh, okay, guess that's fine since it's not working anyway, whatever'," she finishes, spinning around on her heel, "got it?"

"I think so," Anne says.

"Okay, Anne. But you can't just _think_. You have to _know_. Do I need to go over it again?"

"No," she says, too quickly, she realizes as Jen's eyes narrow, she tries to relax her tone a bit, "no, no…I got it. Thanks."

"Great. Okay, see you in a bit!" Jen chirps.

 **December 4, 2016, Sunday, 1:04 AM**

They've followed all of Jen's instructions, pretty much to a tee. She left some pillows on the pile of blankets for them, too, which was considerate, Anne thinks.

Tom begins playing the intro and sings the beginning of "Good Together":

 _you're still smoking cigarettes/i've been begging you to quit for days/i know you won't stop/so i guess i'll love you to your grave_

Apparently that song has transcended hipster status, as a few people know to clap at the words "cigarettes" and "grave".

Tom stops, switches, and gives a long, elegant strum, hands moving deftly, moving into the intro of another, slower song. Anne smiles, and sings:

 _don't look at me/ you've got a girl at home/and everybody knows that, everybody knows that_

The lyrics are so close to her present state of mind she could almost laugh ( _laugh or cry_ ). It's so strange that Tom picked this song, these particular lines, like it's predestined ( _or karmic_ , she thinks as she locks gazes with Henry) or something.

Tom picks up, since the next song, "I Know Places", is faster paced:

 _you stand with your hand on my waistline/ it's a scene and we're out here in plain sight_

Anne sings the next line of "Girl at Home":

 _and it would be a fine proposition/if i was a stupid girl_

Her duet partner sings, voice husky, girls in the room exchanging glances and giggling as he does so:

 _I hear them whisper as we pass by_

Anne's next line from the her first song in the mash-up is one of her favorites (she actually really just likes when Taylor Swift calls people 'honey' in her songs, it may just be her aesthetic):

 _but honey, i am nobody's exception, this i have previously learned_

Well, Henry's ignoring her now, or pretending to, at least, talking to William Compton and Anthony Knivert, not even glancing at her.

 _Fuck that_ , she thinks, scooting closer to Tom than is necessary, evoking whispers around the room.

Tom switches to the song of his first line:

 _well maybe i should shut my mouth/it makes no difference_

Henry's _definitely_ looking at her now, _staring_ at her, actually, some heat behind it. Will Compton has a "the tea is hot" expression on his face as he gingerly takes a drink from his cup. Anthony looks like he's stoned, probably, not that _that's_ unusual. Tom gives her a warning look, and she thinks of his panicked response earlier ( _'I don't want to disappear!'_ ).

Maybe she can make Henry disappear, she thinks, as she switches songs with Tom and sings a line from "I Know Places" in a voice that sounds like it could burn you if you came too close:

 _loose lips sink ships all the_ _ **damn**_ _time/not this time_

Tom plays another intro to the next song, "New Romantics," and begins:

 _we're all bored/we're all so tired of everything/we wait for/trains that just aren't coming_

Anne goes back to "Girl at Home", singing:

 _while she waits up/you chase down the newest thing/and take for granted what you have_

Now even Knivert is beginning to notice that Henry's not paying attention to anything going on around him but Anne; mouth set in a firm line, blue-grey eyes glittering with intensity.

Tom sings his next line from "New Romantics":

 _we're so young/but we're on the road to ruin/we play dumb/but we know exactly what we're doing_

Anne has pretty much dropped all pretense of this being a casual, spontaneous-but-not-really fun performance, as Jen urged. At this point it's more confrontation than song, especially as she sings another line from "Girl at Home":

 _it's kind of like a code yeah/and you've been getting closer and closer/and crossing so many lines_

Tom segues back into "Good Together":

 _you're still biting your nails/I've been begging you to try and quit_

Anne, keeping the same intensity in her voice, switches songs to "New Romantics":

 _we show off/our different scarlet letters/trust me, mine is better_

Tom switches to the next song, "Welcome to New York", singing in a staccato:

 _when we first dropped our bags on apartment floors_

Anne keeps singing "New Romantics", and again the lyrics hit close to home:

 _we cry tears/of mascara in the bathroom/honey, life is just a classroom_

Tom continues to sing "Welcome":

 _took our broken hearts, put them in a drawer_

Anne switches back to "Girl", and Tom switches to the smoother, slower beat of that song:

 _wanna see you pick up your phone/and tell her you're coming home_

In unison they sing:

 _and every day is like a battle/but every night with us is like a dream_

Anne sings "New Romantics" again:

 _we're all here/the lights and boys are blinding_

Tom continues to sing "Welcome":

 _it's been waiting for you_

Anne sings:

 _we hang back/it's all in the timing_

Tom is starting to struggle to keep up, he is having to make a _lot_ of chord changes, as he sings:

 _it's a new soundtrack/i could dance to this beat, beat_

As Anne sings the next line of "New" she remembers the rooftop, how floored Henry was that she knew, that she put all her cards down on the table and won, how it didn't really feel like winning at all (and considering the way Henry's face changes as she sings, an acerbic sting to the words, she's guessing he remembers, too), and it feels something like catharsis:

 _it's poker/he can't see my face/but I'm about to play my ace_

 **1:09** **AM**

Tom keeps singing "Welcome":

 _the lights are so bright/but they never blind me_

Anne sings another line of "New" and Tom smiles, proud of how well he matched the line he just sang and Anne's next one, because they have the same amount of syllables, they complement each other really well:

 _we need love/but all we want is danger_

The next one he sings is one of Tom's favorites, the song might be called "Welcome to New York" but this is pretty true of Los Angeles, too:

 _and you can want who you want: boys and boys and girls and girls_

He notices Anne's eyes are downcast as she sings the next line of "New" (it's not supposed to be a sad line, more of an angry one, but maybe it brings up a bad memory or something):

 _the rumors/are terrible and cruel/but honey, most of them are true_

Tom sings the next line of "Welcome", excited that he found two lines that from two different songs that rhymed:

 _it's a new soundtrack/it's been waiting for you_

Anne sings, with a strange emphasis:

 _the_ _ **best**_ _people in life are free._

He's _really_ excited for this part, he doubts anyone else in his class will think to do this, picking a brand new song to stick at the end and still overlay it with a previous one, he sings from "Demons", playing much more slowly as he does so:

 _no matter what we breed_

Earlier he told Anne to slow down the pace of "New" on this line, to match his, and luckily she remembers:

 _'cause baby I could build a castle_

Tom sings, even more slowly:

 _we still are made of greed_

And Anne sings, matching his decrease in tempo:

 _out of all the rocks they threw at me…_

Now, for the grand finish he made to tie it all together, they sing the last line at a speed about three times more slow than the radio version of "Demons":

 _this is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom co-ooome._

Everyone cheers, and it could be wishful thinking, but to Tom they really do seem impressed. He's definitely more confident about his final than he was before.

Well, _Tudor_ doesn't seem impressed. He looks decidedly _un_ impressed, actually, as he turns around and leaves his friends without saying goodbye, far as he can tell.

If he's newly on his shit list, at least Tom will know _why_ , he supposes, hoping it doesn't come to that.

 **Later that night**

Anne heads back to the kitchen and decides to make herself another drink.

She wants to erase the way she feels right now, because she feels like she's burning and filled with regret and flipping through the pages of certain memories she'd like to forget, and it's just not good.

So she makers herself a rum and coke and rummages through the drawers for a straw (straws quicken consumption, thus quickening the effect of alcohol- Anne is nothing if not practical. And a lightweight to boot).

She sucks it down, but now she feels trapped, the air in here feels stale, she feels like she's forgotten how to breathe, so she puts her glass in the sink and takes the side door in the kitchen that leads to the porch.

 **Sunday, 1:30 AM**

Henry's walking back to his dorm, watching the smoke from his cigarette curling above him, thinking about dark hair and rain and things unsaid when:

"I'm…hi."

He recognizes the voice, but doesn't turn around. _Typical_ , he thinks.

She appears in his peripheral vision, walking besides him, arms crossed.

"Can I bum one?" she asks.

"Thought you were allergic," he says dryly, taking a drag.

"I lied. Former smoker. I usually don't, but, it's…finals."

"Stressed?"

"You have no idea."

"I think I might."

He takes his pack out, and she pulls one out, thanks him, puts it in her mouth. She takes a lighter out, tries to light it herself (to his credit, he stops walking and waits for her to do so), but fails once, twice, thrice.

"Sorry," she says, "cold hands."

 **1:34 AM**

"Here," he says, lighting it for her (with a Zippo…of course he has an expensive lighter, she thinks, not one where you have to flick your thumb over the wheel, not one you have to buy at a gas station every few weeks).

"You shouldn't smoke," he says, after she already is, "it'll wreck that pretty voice of yours."

"Mmmm," she says, enjoying the nicotine buzz too much to even register the word 'shouldn't'.

"You've been…you're leaving me alone, right?" she asks softly, checking to see, feeling incredibly fragile as she does so.

They've walked down to Hugo fountain, and they stand right next to it now, grass and trees and rose bushes framing them, shadows cast around by the streetlights, watching each other as they smoke.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you asked me to. And I'm finally listening," he admits.

 _Well, that's fair._

They both finish their cigarettes and dispose of them in the fountain (littering, of course, but it does cut down on the risk of fire hazard and the fountain water is filthy no matter what, so what else is there to do?).

"You _do_ want me to leave you alone," he asks, hands in his pockets, stepping closer to her, "don't you?"

"I…"

She should say yes. She doesn't _want_ to say yes, but she knows she really, _really_ should.

But in this moment she doesn't want to do the things she should do.

His eyes search her face like he's looking for something he's lost.

"Right," he says finally, "why wouldn't you?"

"I should go," she says quietly, "it's late, and-"

"Me too. Just…"

He laughs, more to himself, than her, it seems, looking down as he does so, then up at her again.

They're standing close. He leans even closer, closing the distance between them effectively, and cradles her face in his hands, gently, as if he's about to kiss her.

Anne expects that, but he just weaves his fingers through her hair, and she feels like he's trying to memorize her. That's how deeply he's taking her in.

She sighs, lets her face fall a little bit left into his hand, as if she's melting into it, and he brushes his thumb against her cheek.

" _Don't forget_ ," he whispers intently.

 **1:40 AM**

"Don't forget what?" she asks, brow furrowed, confusion woven in her voice, along with something else he can't name ( _want?_ ).

"Just- don't forget."

"Henry, what do you-"

"I'll see you," he says, withdrawing his hands.

He walks away, backwards, though, so he's facing her, giving a wave as he does so.

"You'll _see_ me?" she asks incredulously.

"See you around," he says, putting his hands in his pockets, and shrugging, "see you later…whichever."

And then he does turn around, walking straight down the path to his dorm, walking towards something and very much wishing he could walk in the opposite direction, instead.


	20. Chapter 20

**December 4, 2016, Sunday, 9:30 AM**

Anne tried the teen television drama thing. She drank more than she should have, she flirted with a (kind-of) ex, she had a passive-aggressive confrontation with an enemy ( _did Brandon…apologize? that doesn't sound right_ ) she sang, she tried to make the boy she liked jealous, she shared a cigarette and an exquisitely torturous, exasperating moment (never has an almost-kiss ever messed with her head so much) with said boy. She pretty much did it all, followed the whole formula.

Teen dramas, she decides as she grabs the travel packet of Advil on her nightstand (attached is a post-it note that just reads "girl.", signed with Anna's name and a tiny heart drawn next to it), are stupid. They're probably written by people that didn't get invited to parties in school and glamorize them, and their aftermath, for this reason. She officially denounces the teen drama method.

Because the thing is that the inside of her mouth feels like cotton balls, and her hair is three different kinds of tangled, and she's overslept through the hours she was going to be studying today (she's three hours behind the study schedule she wrote for herself yesterday, before she had gone to the party, seen Henry from across the room, and decided alcohol was a better idea). The thing is that her head is in absolute agony (she thinks as she unscrews the water bottle Anna probably left on her nightstand and takes the Advil to remedy that fact, the cool water soothing the dryness), and when she catches her reflection in the mirror across the room she looks like a raccoon (mascara smudged down to her cheeks), a raccoon that's had a _very_ hard night, indeed.

And that's not _fair_ , because in teen dramas the female stars have glowing skin and perfectly messy, shiny hair, even when they wake up with hangovers. They may groan a little bit, yawn prettily and go back to bed, or get out of bed and make themselves some sort of smoothie "cure", but they do not look like _raccoons_ as they list last night's regrets to their bestie.

Speaking of besties…Anna isn't here. Which is odd. And also annoying. Because in teen dramas the best friend is always there, chirping " _heeeey_ , party girl" as soon as their friend wakes up.

So that's _another_ unrealistic bit, apparently. They just keep coming.

But she shouldn't be so hard on Anna. She did save her with a nightstand treatment, after all.

 **9:42 AM**

She realizes, as she's in one of communal showers, scrubbing at her face with her citrusy cleanser, that she wants to see Henry

She wants to see him, because he finally listened to her 'leave me alone' (she's the one that followed him on the walk, after all), because _despite_ herself she misses him. _Has_ missed him.

Anne had missed the little things (the way his laugh lacked any trace of self-consciousness, the calluses on his fingers as he gripped a pen, the way his tongue peeked out a little bit whenever he was really concentrating on something), and the big things (the way he looked at her like she was the only one in the room, even amidst a crowd, his gentle patience when she was at a loss for words).

Next semester, she won't be his tutor anymore. Everyone switches, even if they're continuing in the same subject. They will no longer have Tuesday's. She will no longer have any excuse to see him.

She's already decided on her 2017 New Year's resolution. It's to avoid him, and thus any temptation.

So, she reasons with herself as she shampoos her hair, she deserves one last day with him, really. Because next year she won't see him at all.

 _I'll see you…see you around, see you later…whichever._

 _Well, 'later' is going to have to be sooner than he's probably anticipating_ , she thinks, _and if he doesn't like it, tough._

 **December 4, 2016, Sunday, 10:22 AM**

Brandon's checking his student email on his cell when Anna, who's been sleeping on his chest, stirs.

"What time is it?" she asks, getting up and rubbing her eyes, and getting up to open the curtains, "holy _shit_ it's morning!" she yelps, answering her own question.

"Yup."

" _Why'd_ you let me fall asleep," Anna snaps, throwing the covers off and starting to jump around the room, frantically picking up clothes and pulling them on, " _when_ did I fall asleep?!"

"Some time after our fourth round," he says lazily, watching her struggle with the zipper of her skirt with some amusement, "relax. It's not a big deal."

"I don't _do_ sleepovers," she insists, flustered, picking her glasses up from his nightstand and slipping them on, "it's one of my rules."

"But you did. Sleep over," he says, smirking, "among other things."

"On accident! I don't _do_ that," she says, finally yanking the zipper upwards, "it blurs the lines."

"The lines of what, what are you-"

"The lines, Brandon! The _lines_!"

"Oh, sure," he says, as she puts on her sneakers, "the lines, of _course_."

He hears a persistent knock. Henry's bed is closer to the door, but of course he sleeps like the dead, so Brandon will have to answer it.

"I'll be back," he says, getting up from his bed and stretching as soon as he's standing.

"Who is that?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm going to answer it."

"Well," she says, jumping onto the bed, standing on it and pulling the curtain around it, "I'm not here, okay?"

"Okay, you're not here…crazy," he mutters under his breath, opening the door.

 **10:25 AM**

 _Jesus._

Brandon's answered the door wearing only sweatpants, and he may be evil, but Anne's _human_ , after all…human and susceptible to the hypnotic power of six-pack abs.

"No, it's Brandon, actually," he says with a smirk.

"What?"

"Brandon, not Jesus."

"Whatever," she snaps, cheeks coloring (hardly able to process that she said that aloud without _dying_ of shame and embarrassment on the spot), "is Henry here?"

"He is, but he's asleep."

"Well, I don't mind. I'll just wait inside. It's important."

"Listen," he says, looking over his shoulder, then back at her, "I'm kind of in the middle of something…or some _one_ , that is..."

"Gross."

"No need to be bitter just because you're not getting any. But I think she probably wants privacy-"

"I doubt she cares. And you guys have curtains around the beds, anyway."

"Well, true, but- wait, how do _you_ know that?"

"I-"

His mouth drops open.

"You two fucked? Wow, I'm surprised he hasn't bragged about that yet-"

"No," she hisses, "we haven't 'fucked'-"

"Why _else_ would you be in our room?" he says, grinning, obviously very pleased by what he _thinks_ is juicy news.

"We were studying here. Don't be a jackass. I know that's hard for you, but at least try-"

"Oh, wow. You're Mystery Girl."

"I'm _what_?"

"The one that was sleeping in his bed, the reason he kicked me out…I didn't even _think_ of _you_ as a possibility."

"Gee, thanks," she says dryly, "anyway-"

"Let me check," he says, closing the door behind him.

 **10:29 AM**

"Your friend's outside," he says, sliding the curtain around his bed open, "want me to tell her to leave?"

"Which friend?" she asks in a panicked voice.

"Boleyn."

"Anne?!"

"That's the one."

"Fuck," she says, sitting on the floor, crawling under his bed and grabbing her purse, "fuck shit fucking…shit!"

"Alright, I'll tell her to leave …why are you freaking out?"

"She can't _know_. And Anne's stubborn," Anna says, "she's going to find a way to get in your room if she wants, come hell or high water."

The knocking on the door commences.

"I think you're overestimating her…the door locks from the outside-"

"Or Henry will wake up, find out she's here, or she'll _call_ him or something, and you _know_ he's going to let her in if she asks," she says with rapid-fire speed, chewing on her hair nervously, "and who _knows_ how long she'll be here-"

"Slow down! I have _no_ idea what you're saying-"

Anna turns and looks out the window, both hands on her hips.

"How safe is your fire escape?" she asks.

"I don't know, I've never used it-"

She's already opening the window, bag under her shoulder, swinging both legs over the sill.

"You have got to be kidding me…Anna," he yelps as she jumps out onto it, "you could get hurt, you mental patient!"

She's landed and now she's going down the stairs.

"Later!" she calls out, waving from the steps.

Apparently she'd rather risk injury than let Anne know she'd stayed the night.

He could be insulted, but it's honestly kind of flattering, from Brandon's perspective, anyway. It means she wanted to sleep with him even though her friend hates him, that she wants to despite the fact that she doesn't want anyone to know.

That's got to be a strong kind of desire. A reason-defying kind. And that can't be anything _but_ flattering, really.

 **11:00 AM**

When Henry opens his eyes to the vision of Anne Boleyn sitting on the floor, flipping through the pages of a textbook and adding post-it notes, he thinks he might be dreaming. _That_ is how unlikely that sight seems.

Except she's wearing clothes, so he's probably not (when she is clothed in his dreams, she's always wearing gowns, sometimes strange hoods inlaid with pearls and jewels).

"Good…morning?" he says, sitting up against the headboard.

How she responds will probably tell him for certain if he's dreaming or awake. If she starts speaking with a British accent, saying strange, old words, calling him "Your Majesty", it's a dream. If she takes her shirt off, it's a dream.

"Good morning, " she says, "sleep alright?"

 _So that's a no, then._

"I slept fine…why are you-"

"I need help on my History final."

"Okay, and…?"

"You have a 99% in the class and you took every AP class associated with it in high school and got 5's on all the exams."

"Oh, that. Well," he admits, crossing his arms, "I'm good at…remembering dates…pass me my shirt, please? It's next to you."

Anne looks up from her textbook and then down at the floor, to the crumpled navy blue shirt lying by her feet.

"You can't get up?"

"'Up' is the problem," he says, shifting in his seated position, leaning over slightly to grab the comforter he must've kicked to the foot of his bed when he was sleeping and yanking it over himself.

"Oh," she says, blushing, she grabs the shirt and throws it at him.

It hits him the face, and he pulls it over his head, his 'thank you' muffled by the fabric.

"Anyway," he says, scratching the back of his head, " _how_ do you know all that, exactly?"

"Your file."

"Right…well," he says with a shrug, "yeah, I never have to study for that subject, for some reason."

"Maybe you remember past lives," she quips, "but whatever the reason, you're good at it, and I'm not."

"And you want me to help you?"

"Yes."

 **11:07 AM**

Henry slides down, lying down and putting his head on the pillow.

He's just…staring at the ceiling.

He stares at it for five minutes (she literally times it, on her phone), before she snaps:

"You owe me."

Absolutely no reaction.

He rolls over, facing the wall.

"Henry?"

"Fine," he says.

"Fine?!"

Honestly, she was expecting him to put up more of a fight than that.

"Fine," he repeats.

"Fine," Anne parrots, "so…"

"Come back in half an hour."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, turning on his side so that he's facing her, "I need my beauty sleep."

"Your what?" she asks, laughing.

"Do you think _this_ ," he says, waving a hand around his face, "happens by accident?"

"Henry-"

"I already said yes. Go away. Come back in half an hour. And I'll help you."

 _Unbelievable!_

 **11:10 AM**

Anne runs into Brandon on the stairwell on her way down from Henry's dorm.

 _Great._

"Where are _you_ going?" he asks, coffee in one hand, bag of pastries with the student café logo stamped on it in the other.

 **11:11 AM**

"He kicked me _out,_ " she huffs indignantly, as if in a state of total disbelief, "can you _believe_ that?"

"That's hilarious."

"He was _rude_! Almost as rude as you!"

"Yeah, he's not really a morning person."

They stand in the stairwell awkwardly, her crossing her arms, seething, him waiting for his cue to go.

"Well," he says finally, lifting the hand with the bag in it, "I'd offer you a donut, but you don't really look like you eat them..."

"I eat donuts," she snaps, grabbing the bag, before he realizes what's happening, before he even thinks to yank his hand away, "I eat the _hell_ out of donuts, you don't know me."

"Actually, I was just being polite," he says, "and trying to manipulate you with a compliment about your figure into _not_ eating one-"

"Well," she says, biting into the jelly one (his favorite, _of course, what else_ ), strawberry oozing out and staining the corner of her mouth, "that backfired, didn't it?"

"Hey, give it back!" he shouts as she takes off down the stairs.

She runs back up, tosses the bag to him, and he catches it.

"Good reflexes," she says.

"The best. Am I going to see you up there later?"

"Yes, if you're going to be there in half an hour."

"Great," he says, rolling his eyes, then, continuing the sarcasm, "looking forward to it."

 **12:36 PM**

"Which king was executed during the French Revolution?" Henry asks.

Henry is sitting upright against the trunk of the tree they're under. Anne is lying on her back the a blanket she brought to protect herself from grass stains, looking up through the branches, sunlight dappling her face.

"Louis."

"There were a lot of Louis. Which one?"

"Are you telling me you _know_ this number? _Without_ that piece of paper?" she asks incredulously.

"Yes. Which Louis?"

"All I remember is Marie Antoinette. I can't help it, she was just more interesting than her husband. And there's not a movie by Sofia Coppola with his name in the title, so…"

"Okay…when was he executed?"

"Before 1800."

"Boleyn!"

"I don't know! Like right before 1800. Like…within ten years before?"

"Well, at least that's right."

"Hey!"

"Let's see…what do you know about Marie Antoinette? Give me some number things…"

"Number things?"

"Dates, ages."

"She was fourteen when she was married."

"Yes, and how old was her husband?"

"Not much older, I think."

"He was fifteen. So," he says, ticking off 'one' on his index finger, "she's married at fourteen, and," raises two fingers, "he's married at fifteen, and he's Louis the…"

"Sixteenth!"

"Right! She's fourteen, he's fifteen, he's the sixteenth. That's how you'll remember."

"That's…really smart. Wow."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"Maybe a little…just…how do you _know_ all this stuff? The last execution of a witch in Scotland, the sons of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the economic policies of Jimmy Carter…you've only looked at that paper to write down notes on what I'm getting wrong. You know all of it."

"I like history," he says with a shrug, "I like learning about leaders especially. How they've failed, how they've succeeded…I have to be in a leadership position myself some day, whether I want to be one or not."

"What do you mean, whether you want to or not?"

"It's…it's not important," he says, shaking his head, "stop trying to distract me. We have a _lot_ more questions to get through."

"Do you have anything you should study for?"

"Probably," he says, doodling the shape of France onto the paper, "but I promised I'd help you."

"You know," she says, lifting herself up by her elbows, sitting up and crossing her legs, "analysts that specialize in studying say that the likelihood of memorization is higher when you switch between subjects every now and then."

"Sounds like something a procrastinator would say," he says, rolling up the practice questions sheet of paper and swatting her on the knee with it.

" _Ah!_ " she gasps, then puts her hand over heart, "I am _so_ offended by that that I will not even respond, thank you…what I _am_ going to do is look up with the _American Psychological Association_ article that proves the point I just made."

"America is a lazy country," he says, unrolling the paper, "that's why I went to secondary school in London."

" _You're_ American," she points out, waiting for the webpage to load on her phone.

"Yeah, exactly."

Anne rolls her eyes, passing her phone to him to read.

"There's another article that supports it in the Scientific-"

"Let me guess: American?"

 **12:40 AM**

Anne crosses her arms and pouts (actually _pouts_ ), pushing his knee with her feet, which happen to be in the purple Doc Martens he bought for her.

 _How different we are at night versus day_ , he thinks as he pushes her feet off, saying, "tsk, tsk", and holding her phone over her head so that she can't reach it.

"Henry!"

"Anne."

"The Scientific American," she says, trying to take her phone back as he waves it around, "is a very prestigious and well-respected magazine! It's been around since 1845! Albert _Einstein_ wrote articles for it, for God's sake!"

"Oh, _now_ you know your history," he teases, "while you're at it, give me a list of Einstein's accomplishments, from 1905 to 1939."

"Give me my phone!"

"Give me an accomplishment."

"E = mc2."

"What year did he publish the paper that introduced it?"

" _Not_ part of the deal-"

" _What_ … _year_?"

"Nineteen-oh...nineteen-oh-give-me-my-phone!"

"Well, half of that's right."

"Henry!"

"What's the other half?"

Anne lets out some sort of weird combination sound: half scream of frustration, half growl.

Before he can fully process what's happening, she's scooted over to him and moves herself until she's _sitting in his lap_.

That's pretty much the only thing running through his mind ( _she's sitting on my_ _ **lap**_ _,_ _ **she's**_ _sitting on my lap, she's sitting on_ _ **my**_ _lap, she's_ _ **sitting**_ _on my lap, God help me_ ) when she plucks her phone from his hand and gets off of him just as quickly as she got on him.

She lies down on her blanket again, taps a few times on her phone, and says, "1905."

"Looking it up," he says, clearing his throat, "is cheating."

"When you're taking the test, sure. Not now. And I _can't_ answer anymore questions about the French Revolution, Henry, I just can't. Not for at least another half an hour."

"Fine," he says, smoothing the paper out again, "we'll stay on the 1900s for now-"

" _Please_. Let's at least try the switching the subjects thing, and if you hate it we can switch back after like, half an hour."

"Fine," he sighs, "I _do_ have an American Lit exam tomorrow I should probably study for..."

"I _love_ lit classes! Awesome. Should we go back to your room to get notes?"

"Tell you what," he says, pocketing her study outline in his jeans, "since _someone_ very little and annoying interrupted my REM sleep this morning, I could use some coffee. Why don't you pick some up for us and I'll meet you at my dorm?"

"Deal."

 **1:11 PM**

"How much was it?" Henry asks, opening the drawer of the nightstand and taking his wallet out.

"It was free, don't worry about it," she says, removing his cup from the cardboard carrier and putting it by his bed.

"Free?"

"I work there, remember?"

"Oh, right…must be dangerous, for you. Do they ever cut you off?" he asks, taking the lid off and blowing on his drink before taking a careful sip.

"They wouldn't _dare_ ," Anne says, gripping her cup with two hands, protectively.

 **1:58 PM**

"God, how do people just sit down and _read_ for hours? Anything longer than ten minutes is too much…"

"How can you not like reading? You like history," Anne points out.

"You don't have to read a lot to like history. History is just Wikipedia-link-jumping. It's easy to scan. You can't scan literature or you miss some terribly important plot point or random paragraph that's somehow symbolic of the main character, the entire novel, the era, the human race, or some _other_ shit…"

"'Some other shit'?"

"Excuse me for missing how a red chair means that war is a necessary evil, or whatever-the-fuck. Why don't writers just say what they mean?"

"Then it'd be a technical manual. There'd be no art to it."

"I guess," he says, flipping a page in _This Side of Paradise,_ "but I know Fitzgerald only wrote this book to impress his girlfriend. And I'm _not_ his girlfriend. So I resent having to read it. And he didn't he end up plagiarizing her?"

"True, but there are some beautiful quotes in there!"

"Yes," he says, "buried in between long passages of the narrator's exhausting inner thoughts, I guess there are."

"'They slipped into an intimacy from which they never recovered'? Beautiful."

"I guess," he says, trying to jot down the chapter summary from his notes and skimming the book to see if there's anything he missed.

"'Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind'? Beautiful."

"Yeah," he says, closing the paperback and throwing it across the room, "if nothing else, he got laid after writing this."

"Henry!"

"What? He did. She married him, didn't she?"

"Yes, but-"

"And they had a daughter, so that's _pretty_ irrefutable proof that he got laid."

"You're terrible."

"Terribly _tired_ of this book."

"I think I got that when you threw it."

"Back to history," he says, picking up the textbook sitting by her knee.

"Don't throw that," she says, "it cost me way too much to be thrown."

"I wouldn't _throw_ your history book, Boleyn. I wouldn't throw _my_ history book. I _like_ history."

"So you've said."

 **From: George Boleyn**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent December 4, 2016, Sunday, 7:04 PM**

Hey, sis…

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

George! I haven't heard from you in forever!

 **From: George**

Well, yes, you know. Been busy sinning and such.

 **From: Anne**

Have any holiday plans?

 **From: George**

Well…funny you should mention it…

 **From: Anne**

Oh, no.

 **From: George**

I'm currently crashing on a friend's couch…

 **From: Anne**

Oh, NO.

 **From: George**

And I thought…that maybe you could use those doe eyes of your to convince dad to let me stay there? Only till the end of December, I swear, no longer than that.

 **From: Anne**

I don't wield as much influence as you think.

 **From: George**

You're the favorite. Please?

 **From: Anne**

I and my 'doe eyes' will do our best.

 **From: George**

That's all I ask.

 **From: Anne**

No promises.

 **From: George**

Of course. Love you, sis!

 **From: Anne**

Love you, too.

 **From: Mary Boleyn**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent December 5, 2016, Monday, 9:12 PM**

Hey, wanted to ask you this in person but things have been so crazy with finals and us being so busy that I'm texting it. You up?

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

Yes I'm up, it's not even 10 yet!

 **From: Mary**

Idk, you were always weird about your study/sleep schedule in high school!

 **From: Anne**

I don't go to bed before 10. What's up?

 **From: Mary**

So…as you know, dad hasn't bought us plane tickets yet.

 **From: Anne**

Yeah, I know…he said he would but I'm too embarrassed to remind him, honestly. Can we call him together?

 **From: Mary**

Well, thing is, Lizzy's not coming down for the holidays this year. Instead she's driving to the East Coast to visit some friends in New York- she says they're 'more like her family' anyway.

 **From: Anne**

Oh?

 **From: Mary**

Yeah. And she says she's totally willing to have us come, since she can easily drop us off, since home is on the way, anyway.

 **From: Anne**

I don't know…Los Angeles to Washington D.C. is a really long drive.

 **From: Mary**

True, but we'll get some sister-bonding time! And it'll give you a chance to know Lizzy better.

 **From: Anne**

Hmm…

 **From: Mary**

Look, do you want to tell dad and remind him he forgot and that he'll now have to buy us expensive, last-minute plane tickets? Or do you want to call him and tell him we figured it out and he doesn't have to worry?

 **From: Anne**

Okay…road trip it is.

 **From: Mary**

Yaaahs!

 **From: Anna Seville**

 **To: Anne Boleyn**

 **Sent December 6, 2016, Tuesday, 4:04 PM**

Did you return it yet?

 **From: Anna Seville**

Did I return the beautiful, solid gold necklace with a trinket of an envelope inlaid with sapphires? Is that what you mean?

 **From: Anne**

Anna…you know I couldn't accept it. It would send the wrong message.

 **Anna:**

Yeah, and so might having "moments" with him by the Hugo fountain.

 **Anne:**

Anna! I am not sharing things with you if you are just going to use them against me.

 **Anna:**

Then we are going to have a very quiet friendship.

 **Anne:**

…I didn't ask to be read like this.

 **Anna:**

Lmao. But yeah, I returned it. He wasn't there, Brandon was, so I gave it to him to give to Tudor.

 **Anna:**

Do you even want to know what the note said?

 **From: Anne**

 **Sent 4:25 PM**

No.

 **From: Anne**

 **Sent 4:45 PM**

Yes.

 **Anna:**

"Thanks for the tutoring help this year. Zelda's got nothing on you.

Yours, Henry"

 **Anne:**

Is that it?

 **Anna:**

Yeah. What were you expecting?

 **Anne:**

Idk…more, I guess?

 **Anna:**

More than a gold necklace and a handwritten note?

 **Anne:**

No…never mind. It's hard to explain.

 **From: Henry Tudor**

 **To: Katherine Aragon**

 **Sent December 7, 2016, Wednesday, 1:03 AM**

Do you still love me?

 **From: Katherine Aragon**

Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.

 **From: Henry Tudor**

Do you?

 **From: Katherine**

Yes, I do. Do you?

 **From: Henry**

Yes.

 **From: Katherine**

Was that it?

 **From: Henry**

No…I don't think I've ever asked you this, but…are you in love with me?

 **From: Katherine**

You are asking for honesty?

 **From: Henry**

Please.

 **From: Katherine**

I don't know.

 **From: Henry**

Looks like we're on the same page there, too.


	21. Chapter 21

**author's note: hi! so this story reads a lot smoother if you hope over to archiveofourown. it's there under the username boleynqueens. I have to write times for each different passage because it doesn't let you do page breaks on here. I also update on archiveofourown more frequently so if you're looking to get updates sooner I would recommend checking it out on there.**

 **happy reading!**

 **December 10, 2016, Saturday**

Lizzy, Mary, and Anne load into Lizzy's blue 2006 Saturn at 5:00 AM ('dark and early!' Lizzy chirps as Anne and Mary wince) to avoid traffic and get a good head start. They have a _long_ drive ahead of them.

Mary is _really_ not a morning person. Anne is, once she's had her coffee. Lizzy, with hair gold as sunlight and a voice gentle as butterflies, _is_ , of course. ('She gets up at 4:00 AM to ride her bike to the beach- isn't that fucked up?' Mary informs Anne from the front passenger seat as Lizzy laughs and kisses her on the cheek).

They pull into a Starbucks drive thru. Anne gets a holiday spice flat white ( _what the hell, 'tis the season, jingle bells and all that jazz_ ), venti (of course). Lizzy gets a strawberry frappucino ( _it's forty-eight degrees outside, but sure, whatever_ , Anne thinks, and also she knows for a _fact_ that that drink has no caffeine, so she's temporarily questioning Lizzy's sanity just all around), and Mary falls asleep before they can order, but Anne gets her a venti iced white mocha (which Mary always wants but never gets, always citing 'calories' as the reason) so that it keeps if she wakes up later.

After they get their drinks and pay, Lizzy pulls into the parking lot and parks the car.

"I'm not going to crick my neck trying to talk to you," she explains, "let's move her to the back, she'll be more comfortable anyway."

Mary grumbles as they try to move her, but between the two of them it's pretty easy to do so.

And as soon as they pull onto the I-15 N (the first long leg of their trip, Anne announces, '66.2 miles'), Mary's out, snoring, the movement of the car having effectively put her to sleep.

 _Like a baby_ , Anne thinks.

Mary has a bad habit of pulling all-nighters before exams. It's counterproductive, Anne always tells her, because you can't be at peak performance when your brain needs sleep, but she doesn't listen to her, of course.

 **6:11 AM**

Anne learns a lot about Lizzy Blount on the drive. Granted, she learns some things that don't really surprise her, like that she has every single Michelle Branch CD, and also a sizeable collection of Florence + the Machine, Lana Del Rey, Vanessa Carlton, and Britney Spears. Or like the fact that she was a model during high school (though Lizzy tells her she didn't like it very much).

There are things she doesn't expect, like the fact that Lizzy's a pacifist (well, _that_ part's not surprising) and can eloquently explain all the reasons why.

There's a lull in their conversation around the 30th mile of I-15, and Lizzy says, "Ask me anything, the more personal the better…it'll prevent me from getting drowsy, and it makes it go faster. Just music doesn't do it for me."

"Okay…um…"

Anne's not really good at that sort of thing.

"Should I make a reservation for a hotel for us?" she asks instead, "I can't believe I didn't think-"

"Oh, we don't need that. I have friends all across America," Lizzy says cheerily, "I've arranged everything, overnight location wise."

"How?"

Lizzy explains that her parents, trust fund hippies, consider everyone their friends. That her mom would meet a struggling actor at the farmer's market, find out they were getting evicted, and let them crash on the couch. That her dad would strike up a conversation with a busker at the train station and bring them home for a 'home-cooked meal', which often turned into a week of overnight stay, and that her parents did this over and over again.

"When you were…how old?" Anne asks.

"First stranger I remember sleeping on our couch…probably seven. From seven onwards."

"Didn't they think that might be unsafe?"

"It wouldn't have crossed their minds…they were kind of remiss with the whole parenting thing," Lizzy says, matter-of-factly.

"They just did whatever they wanted, basically- pass me my sunglasses? They're in the glovebox."

Anne pulls out a heart shaped pair and passes them to Lizzy, who slides them on.

"Which, you know," she continues, "is fine if you're alone or whatever, but not so great if you have a kid."

"How else were they remiss?"

Anne hopes that's not too much. Her sister's girlfriend did tell her to err on the side of personal, after all…

"Gosh, I don't know…I mean, my mom would do things like pack me a lunch for school, but I'd open the bag at the table and it'd end up being a container of marshmallow fluff and a bad apple or something. I guess she started to pack and then forgot…anyway, stuff like that made it hard for me in school."

"What do you mean?" Anne asks, feeling very sad thinking of a little Lizzy sitting at a cafeteria table with nothing to eat.

"I was _not_ popular at school. Like, ever."

Anne can't imagine that- Lizzy is so pretty and so sweet, it's hard to imagine her being unpopular.

"Was it like…a you-were-a-model-and-all-the-boys-liked-you-so-all-the-girls-were-jealous-type situation?" Anne prompts.

"Not really. I mean, I _was_ a model, since freshman year. But it was always something…it was like a if it's not this isn't something else situation, actually. Like the lunch thing….that was in elementary school. And people would laugh, and I acted like it was normal, I'd just like, toss the apple and eat some marshmallow fluff like it was no big deal. So eventually I figured out I needed to pack my own lunches, but the thing was that they never had, like, kid food…they'd be so proud of themselves, 'we got you soy string cheese, Lizzy!' and I was like 'I am never, ever eating that,'" she says, laughing.

"So what happened?"

"Oh, right…well, so I think in third grade I got fed up, and because of that I ended up getting busted for shoplifting some Lunchables and fruit roll-ups, and you can bet _everyone_ heard about that. And I was never really able to shake it."

 _Wow._

"Was that it? I mean, that doesn't sound so bad…"

"Oh, no, that wasn't it," Lizzy says easily, "not by a long shot. That was just elementary school. And there was other stuff, too…I'd go to class with flowers in my hair, I was clumsy. I never knew if the teacher was talking to me, never knew how to answer the questions…I was sort of just off in my own little world a lot of the time. I had imaginary friends…they had a field day with me."

Anne tugs at her hair, feeling unsure about what to do with her hands, smiles nervously.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. This is kind of heavy," Lizzy admits, easing her now-melted strawberry frappe from the drink holder, "we can talk about something else, if you want…"

"No, it's okay…tell me about…junior high?"

"Well, okay…if you don't mind," Lizzy says with a shrug, "it doesn't bother me, talking about it, honestly, but if you're-"

"No," Anne says, looking out the window, "oh, hey, it says we're passing…Barstow?"

"Yay! That means we're like, halfway to Las Vegas," Lizzy chirps, checking the clock on the dash, "we're making awesome time, it's only 7:30 AM. Do you have to pee?"

"We got off at a rest stop like an hour ago…"

"I know! But it's good to stay on it, especially on road trips."

"No, I'm good," Anne says.

"Okay," Lizzy says, drumming her hands against the wheel, cruising for a bit before she takes the '2 and 10' position again, "what were we talking about?"

"Junior high."

"Oh right…so the thing with junior high was the whole me-liking-girls thing."

"How did anyone-"

"Find out? I'm not sure. But my lab partner for this project was Kendra. And she was really, really popular. And we were working on it at my house, and she kissed me! And I was super stoked, because I had been wanting to kiss a girl forever, and she was so pretty…and so we sort of made that a regular thing, the kissing thing? Except I probably should've nipped it in the bud, because sometimes she was kind of weird about it."

"'Weird about it?'"

"Like, we'd be watching a movie at the theater, and we'd be making out, and she'd suddenly pull away and be like, 'no, I like BOYS', and I was like, okay, a) you kissed me first, and b) what the heck, I like boys, too, what's your point….I think probably what happened is someone saw us and told her. And she probably got scared and told them that I was like, some sort of predator or something and that it wasn't mutual."

"Oh, God…what happened?"

"I think I made up some medical condition and forged a Dr's note to get out of P.E…they were _brutal_ in the locker room. Which, like, as if I would be staring! As if I ever did anything but stare at my locker when I was changing like everyone else. But, anyway. _That_ followed me to high school, for sure."

 **7:50 AM**

Lizzy declares, mere minutes after her junior high story, that she does have to pee, after all, so they take Exit 181 and she uses the Sleep Inn on Historic Route 66. Anne decides to, too, since they're here, anyway, and fills her reusable water bottle up with ice-water from the lobby, that special kind that hotels have that always has some sort of cut up fruit inside, usually in a glass dispenser.

They debate waking Mary up. She's out like she's taken a handful of sleeping pills, but she didn't touch her mocha, so she's probably not going to have to go for a while.

"Okay," Anne says as she buckles up, and Lizzy starts the car, "so, for a more fun question: what's your favorite thing about college?"

They go straight on Main St, passing restaurants on their left, the town more or less a concrete wasteland, dirt roads surrounding them as they drive out.

"Well, that one's easy," Lizzy says brightly, pushing her turn signal and looking both ways before making a left on L Street, "probably that no one cares, or knows, like, about who you were."

Anne likes that, too.

"I know people think I'm like, this ditzy party girl or whatever," Lizzy says as she merges back onto I-15 North, "but that's better than being 'odd'. And at least people like to have fun _with_ me instead of laughing as they watch me try to have fun by myself."

"What's your least favorite thing?" Anne asks.

"Oh, that's easy, too…it's like…don't judge me, though, okay?"

"I won't," Anne promises, taking a swig of her water. It tastes like oranges and cleanness.

"It's just that people…well, boys, mainly," she corrects herself, "always tell me I'm pretty and then they expect me to be, like _so_ grateful-"

"Yes! I _hate_ that! It's like when men you don't know interrupt you when you're walking, on your way somewhere, to tell you to 'smile'. Like, who are you? And why are you telling me what to do and then expecting me to be happy and grateful for the attention?"

"Oh my God, YES!" Lizzy exclaims, literally bouncing in her seat, "exactly like that, I hate that too, but yeah, it's like…ok, I'm pretty. Who cares? Being that way hasn't ever gotten me anywhere I've liked very much," she says, frowning, contemplative, and Anne can't help but wonder where she's gone in that moment.

"Well, except for with this one," Lizzy says, rolling a shoulder backwards to Mary and smiling.

"That's not the only reason you got her," Anne says, half-joking, half-reassuring.

"No," Lizzy says, flicking her gaze to the Mojave Desert as they roll through it, "but I'm sure it didn't hurt."

 **8:34 AM**

"Oh, I LOVE this song," Lizzy says, turning up a track on her Michelle Branch disc.

Lizzy has one of those older disc changer things that Anne's not sure cars really have any more, where you can put like 8 different CD's in and it shuffles them automatically.

"I know you know this one!" Lizzy says, her right hand flipping open the center console and grabbing her lip balm while her left hand steers.

"I know this one," Anne confirms.

"Well, sing it with me!" Lizzy insists, sliding the balm over her mouth, "or I'm going to feel stupid."

"No, I'm okay…and I don't want to wake Mary up."

"Mary sleeps like she's in a coma and you know it," Lizzy says, pocketing the lip balm, "girl could sleep anywhere."

"I don't know…"

"Suit yourself," Lizzy says, shrugging a freckled shoulder and restarting the song.

Anne hums along to the intro, but sure enough they both roll down the windows and start singing loudly, in perfect disharmony on the chorus:

 _if you want tooo/i can saaave you/i can take you awaa-aay from here!/so lonely inside/so busy out there/and all you wanted was somebody who caa-ares_

 **9:22 AM**

"Do you have a good relationship with your parents?" Anne asks as they drive through Halloran Springs.

"It's…okay," Lizzy says, ineffable as usual, "I don't hold a grudge or anything. It's more funny than anything, actually, because nothing rubbed off on me."

"What do you-"

"Well, maybe the weed habit," Lizzy says sheepishly, laughing at herself, a brilliant, sunny sound, "but otherwise…God, they would _die_ if they knew I ordered double-doubles from In N' Out on the weekly, if they knew I drank soda and ate cola gummies…it just backfired, basically, most of their hippie stuff, I mean. I'm _never_ eating quinoa or kale, ever again."

 **10:00 AM**

They reach Las Vegas by 10 AM, and Mary finally wakes up.

"We crossed the border, babe," Lizzy says, "you missed it."

"That's fine," she says blearily, she stretches her arms and accidentally hits the mocha in the drink holder in the back seat, then cups it with her hand and gulps it greedily, "food please," she says before curling up again.

 **10:19 AM**

So they stop at McDonald's, Mary sitting at the table and sucking on her mocha (still cold-they must've gotten extra hot) and she waits for her fries, Lizzy and Anne filling up their soda cups.

They all devour their food: egg mcmuffins, hash browns, coffee for Anne again, dollar sandwiches and fries.

It takes them about twenty minutes to finish everything. Lizzy takes their tray up and dumps it, and then they all see if they need to use the restroom one last time before hitting the road again.

 **10:49 AM**

"Man," Anne says as they drive past the Las Vegas Motor Speedway, "I hope she's not hypoglycemic or something."

Mary is in the backseat, conked out again, breathing heavily.

"Nah," Lizzy says, "probably just tired."

 **1:40 PM**

"Okay," Lizzy says, taking a sip of the large soda she bought at McDonald's (she had filled it with half Dr. Pepper and half strawberry Fanta, which surprised Anne by not being _quite_ as disgusting as she'd thought it would be when she tried it), "I'm done talking about me…ask me other stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Anne asks.

"I don't know. Quiz me. Surprise me. Ask me about…a person."

"Okay…"

Anne looks out the window, elbow on her armrest, hand cupping her chin. They're passing the Red Cliffs National Conservation Area, and it's beautiful: cliffs jut out in hues of red and purple. There's shrubs and dirt of course, like there has been for a good chunk of this route, but with the cliffs and the mountains in the background, they're simply decorative.

Dark clouds are starting to gather in the sky, and it makes Anne think of rain. And rain makes her think of rooftops, and rooftops make her think of…

"What do you know about Henry Tudor?" she asks, still looking out the window.

"Oh…" Lizzy trails off, a note of hesitancy in her voice, "I mean I don't really know him… _that_ well."

"Aren't you two friends?" Anne presses, fiddling with the latch on the glove compartment, sliding her thumb over it, up and down.

"I mean…yeah. We are."

"It's fine," Anne says, leaning back in her seat and folding her hands in her lap, "forget it."

"No, it's okay…let's see," Lizzy says, shifting her hands' positions on the wheel slightly, "he's had a pretty easy life, I think, for the most part. Things come easily to him. So I think it's pretty hard for him when things… _aren't_ easy for him. Harder than it might be on most people," she says with some significance, eyes sliding to Anne, then back to the road, "people that might deal with hardships more regularly."

"Right."

"I mean…I know he has his stuff. I think his dad's kind of hard on him," Lizzy says.

"Look, I…" Lizzy trails off, looks at Anne, and whispers, "Mary's sleeping, right?"

"If not she's doing a good job of faking it," Anne quips.

"Can you make sure?"

Anne turns around and traces the sole of her sister's bare foot. She twitches a little bit, and then starts snoring in earnest.

"I think we're good," Anne says dryly, "why?"

"She wouldn't want me to tell you this, but I just think you should know…he really likes you. Like, a lot."

"How do you know that?"

"It's just…there's something different. He's different around you, when he talks about you-"

"He talks about me?"

"Oh, no," Lizzy says, waves a hand, "like, in passing, but still. Henry…softens. Not that he's usually harsh or anything, but…you know what I mean."

"Maybe he just has a crush," she says flatly, watching the sky as more clouds gather, darker and thicker than the ones dusting the horizon.

"It seems like…it might be more. And I know he's engaged now," Lizzy says quickly, "and I'm not saying that's like, okay…but I think maybe he'd change it! For you."

"I doubt it," Anne says, observing the sky darken, wishing for rain.

"There might be more to the story, is all. Not that he's told me that, but, you know…rich people are _weird_. They have weird- whatever, I don't know. I mean, Henry's definitely the only billionaire's kid _I_ know, but-"

" _Billionaire_?!"

"Well, yeah," Lizzy says slowly, as if she's speaking to a child, "you didn't know that?"

"No!"

"No?"

"No, I mean, of course I knew he was rich, but I was thinking, like, millions…"

"Oh, wow. No, no, no," Lizzy says, whistling, "Henry Tudor Sr. is like one of the top ten richest men in the world…maybe fifteen, but _probably_ within the top ten."

Anne is at a loss for words.

 _Billionaire?_

"Are you telling me you haven't Internet stalked the boy you have a crush on? Do you know how to like people?"

"I…no, I haven't," Anne says, brow furrowing, she admits, "I have Internet stalked his fiancee, though."

"Oh, so you _are_ a little normal. What've you found?"

"Nothing," she says sulkily, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of her sweater, "she's perfect."

"Oh, come on…she can't be _perfect_."

"She's…short," Anne says with a grimace, "that's literally the only thing I can come up with that's even remotely close to being a flaw. She's beautiful, poised, does a lot of charity work, writes well-written opinion articles for the Huffington Post that rail against the injustices of the world…she's friends with the Pope, for God's sake. Like, _friends_ with him. I can't compete with that-"

"Yeah," Lizzy quips, stretching an arm to the roof of the car and rolling her shoulders, cracking her neck, "because I know the last time _I_ slept with a guy the first thing out of his mouth was, 'wait, how close are you with the Pope, though?'"

"She's brilliant," Anne continues, "I can't even hate her, I agree with everything she's written that I've read….she speaks _five_ languages-"

"So do you!" Lizzy interjects.

"Well, yeah, but- Lizzy. How do you know that?"

"Ummmm," she says, cheeks coloring, she turns the volume on the radio up, "I don't know… _pretty hurts, perfection is the disease of a nation_ , oooo," she sings along.

"Lizzy?"

"Ummmm. Umm…Mary!" she blurts, smiling, " _duh_ , Mary told me."

Anne stares at her, squinting her eyes, waiting for the real answer, since that doesn't ring true ('a bunch of languages', Mary would say, if bragging about her sister, but not the exact number, she's not good at remembering exact numbers, she has to check Facebook to remember even her siblings' birthdays and even then she sometimes forgets if she's asked without her phone in her hand).

Lizzy folds, puts both hands at the top of the wheel and bangs her forehead against it, then goes back to normal, says, "Aaaargh. Damn it."

"Lizzy?"

"Henry told me," she admits miserably, "okay?"

"Why did you try to-"

"He talks about you a _lot_ , okay? I lied. He talks about you a lot, and also every single time he's drunk, and he goes on to me about it because he can't talk to his guy friends about it, because they'll give him a hard time. So I know everything about you! I know that you like caffe llave, whatever that is, that you use a French press, whatever _that_ is, that you were Perseverance in the Masquerade-"

"Lizzy, wait, slow down-"

"-that you like Amelie, that you order weird pizza, that you like books, that you're allergic to smoke, does that mean he should quit smoking? No, he says, that would be crazy, but he would if you asked, hypothetically, apparently, and then that you're _not_ allergic to smoke, you smoke, too, and you're friends with Tom Wyatt, do I think you two are dating? No, I do not, 'but are you sure, Lizzy'? No, Henry, I'm not sure, why don't _you_ ask? 'I don't want to ask, can you ask'? No, I don't want to, I say. I know you like purple doc martens, poetry and Fitzgerald quotes. And then, oh boy, he connects the dots with _someone_ , he's like, 'I heard you two kissed, what was it like kissing her?' And I'm like Henry, I don't want to fuel your weird, objectifying lesbian porno fantasies, fuck off, and he's like no, I don't even mean it like that, I was honestly just wondering if she's a good kisser, I'm curious, and I'm like yeah, I'm sure you are, _perv_ , and he takes _my shoulders in his hands_ , gives me this weird, intense, look, and says, _seriously_ says, 'Lizzy, I'm not being a creep, I don't want you to go into details, I just wanted to know if she's a good kisser or not', and he's being so, so genuine that I'm like, 'yeah, she's a good kisser, if you need to know _that_ badly,' and then he gets this dreamy, distant look in his face, says 'thank you' all sweetly and runs off!"

Lizzy takes a deep breath, checks over her shoulder to make sure Mary's still asleep, then checks Anne to see what her reaction is.

Anne is laughing, silently, wordlessly, her shoulders shaking.

"Well, I got _that_ off my chest," Lizzy says, "I'm glad it's so amusing to you, Anne! It has been _hell_! He won't _shut up_!"

Anne's struggling to catch her breath, wheezing, and now Lizzy is laughing too, and the rain is pouring down, so hard that she pulls over the side of the road so they don't water-plane all over the place.

So there they are, two girls on the side of the road in Utah, laughing hysterically, laughing so hard that tears are leaking from their eyes, one Boleyn girl laughing, the other Boleyn girl's girlfriend laughing with her, the other Boleyn girl sleeping until she starts, mumbles "wha's so funny?" and Lizzy and Anne shriek, say "nothing, oh my God, nothing."

And then of course Mary is petulant, pouting, "why won't you tell me? I hate inside jokes," so Lizzy crawls from the driver's seat and joins her in the back, says, "sorry, honey," still shaking, spoons her and laughs into Mary's shoulder until Mary eventually joins too, not having any idea what they're laughing at except for the concept of laughing itself.

And then _another_ Michelle Branch song comes on, Anne and Lizzy freak out and scream, and Mary exclaims "I remember this song! 2001, baby!" and then they are three girls singing _cause you're_ _ **everywhere**_ _to me!_ at the top of their lungs, free and young and happy and having the time of their lives.


	22. Chapter 22

**author's note: hi! this story is also on archiveofourown. i would really, really recommend reading it on there vs. this website. especially for this chapter, as there are "envelopes" and i have no idea how they're going to look formatted. because this is a story that changes POV's a lot, has a lot of breaks, has a lot of texts, emails, lyrics, articles, etc. it's much smoother reading with blockquotes, which i can do on archiveofourown but not here. on archiveofourown it's the same title, "whitehall university", under the same author handle, boleynqueens.**

 **December 12, 2016, Monday, 2:30 PM**

By the time they hit the border of Maryland, Lizzy is so tired of driving, and tired in general, that she lets Anne drive. Brave of her, Anne thinks, given that she doesn't have a license or insurance (Washington D.C. has an amazing public transit system; Los Angeles Metro's not great, but it's improving and expanding).

Anne used to just get rides from Mary, before Mary drove her car to Whitehall her freshman year and sold it for living expenses.

Mary's license is expired, too, but she was probably the better option give her experience. _Somehow they talked me into this_ , Anne thinks, flinching as a semi-truck passes her, _God knows how._

So Mary's in the front passenger seat, while Lizzy sleeps in the back.

"I'm not sure we should pick George up," Mary says in a panicky voice.

"What are you talking about?" Anne asks irritably, trying to concentrate on driving.

"I'm looking at the Yelp reviews of the apartment building he's staying at…apparently a lot of people have gotten their stuff stolen!"

"Well, good thing we're not moving in," Anne says dryly.

 **3:30 PM**

Anne slows down before she merges onto the exit that says it'll lead her to a gas station.

Apparently the car behind her does not appreciate this, given that they blast their horn.

"Aren't you _supposed_ to slow down when you merge?" Anne says, gripping the wheel tightly.

"Not for a _mile_!" Mary exclaims.

"I'm turning into the gas station! I have to slow down! You're supposed to slow down! I'm putting on my turn signal!" Anne shouts, "I am never driving again!" as she pulls into the gas station, which wakes Lizzy up.

Needless to say, Lizzy returns to the driver's seat after they gas up the car.

 **5:45 PM**

It's snowing softly by the time they roll up to the address George texted Anne (2420 14th St NW, Unit #14).

As Lizzy pulls over to street-park, Anne scans the neighborhood.

It looks…well…' _sketchy' would be a kind description_ , Anne thinks, observing that the apartment complex is covered in graffiti, the sidewalks covered with broken glass, used needles, miscellaneous trash and what looks like… _Oh, God. Are those used condoms?!_

"I think you guys should stay in the car," Anne says, unbuckling her seat belt.

"You shouldn't go in alone," Mary says.

"I'll be fine."

"Here," Lizzy says, opening the center console and handing Anne a small tube that looks like a lipstick.

"What's this for?" Anne asks, uncapping the 'lipstick' and finding that it has a spray nozzle, "is it a little perfume or…?

"Oh! Cap it!" Lizzy exclaims with such urgency that it startles Anne and she puts the top on immediately.

"Sorry, it's just that that's a disguise…it's actually mace," Lizzy explains.

"Oh, wow. Why do you have-"

"Biking alone at 4 am! Remember?"

"Right," Anne says, pocketing it, "thanks."

"Have you called George?" Mary asks.

"I texted him, but no answer."

"Try calling, so that he knows we're here…maybe you don't have to leave the car," Mary says.

Anne searches her contacts for George's number and calls him, but it goes straight to voicemail.

"No answer…it's okay, he probably needs help with his stuff anyway."

"Okay, well…hurry back!" Mary calls.

 **5:50 PM**

Anne walks up the building entrance, pressing #14 to buzz herself in.

It buzzes, but nothing happens. She tries again, and nothing

Anne jumps around for a bit, nervously, until someone leaves the building and open the door for her, so she darts in, grateful she wasn't outside in this area for longer than a few minutes.

 **5:59 PM**

She walks up the staircase to find Apartment #14. She remembers George told her it was on the second story.

There's 14, on the left. The paint on the door is chipped, the golden number sign dingy.

Anne knocks and waits.

George opens the door, leans against it as he smiles.

"Long time, no see, sis!"

Anne knows she should give some sort of response, but she's completely stunned by his appearance. He looks thinner than he did the last time she saw him, his face gaunt, covered in five o'clock shadow, bags under his eyes. The green sweater he's wearing hangs off his frame, the ends of the sleeves holey.

She knows it's him, of course, he has the square face and bright blue eyes he's always had, the thick head of dark hair, he always hovers over her by at least a head, even when his shoulders are hunched, even when he's holding on to a door like it's a life raft.

"Jesus, George," is all she can manage, "you look like you haven't eaten in _weeks_."

George scoffs, "you're not going to hug your brother?"

Honestly, she's afraid to, but she lets him pull her in for one, feeling how skinny he's become.

He invites her in, and he says, "I don't have much stuff, just a suitcase."

"Um," Anne says, taking the place in (it's a small studio, there's one tattered couch, a lot of dust on the ground, some prints on the walls, and an open kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes), "we've kind of been on the road for a while, is it okay if I use your bathroom?"

"Oh, sure, sure only door down the hall to the left, can't miss it."

 **6:10 PM**

The apartment is freezing, her hands are instantly cold, and she winces when she realizes the hot water handle on the sink doesn't work when she tries to wash her hands.

"Did you guys forget to turn the heat on?" she calls out as she wipes her hands on a paper towel and…tosses it on the floor, since there's a pile already there ( _really? how hard is it to get a plastic bag from a grocery store, for God's sake_ ).

"We don't have that," he says, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the couch when she walks out, "want a smoke?"

"No…what do you mean you don't have heat?"

"Friend can't afford it, neither can I," he says with a shrug, "we have electric, though, we just turn the oven on and leave the door open."

"That's a fire hazard!"

" _Weeelll_ ," George says, "yeah…kind of."

"I buzzed #14 and you didn't answer. Were you out?"

"Oh, right," he says, snapping his fingers, "forgot to tell you, buzzer's broken."

"Thanks for the tip," she says, "and you didn't answer when I called because…?"

"Couldn't pay my phone bill," he explains, "so I guess they finally cut off my service."

"Well, I know what I'm getting _you_ for Christmas…"

Anne notices a small rollaway tucked under his feet.

"Is that it?"

"Hmm? Oh this," he says, pushing it out, "yeah, you know me…I'm a minimalist."

Well…there's something to be said for the ridiculousness of American consumerism, Anne thinks. The United States has something like 79% of the world's self-storage facilities. Still, Anne feels a little sad thinking that her brother's entire life can be fit into just one suitcase, but she chides herself for feeling that way…she's probably just being judgmental. Besides, there's probably something to it, some sort of freedom, she's sure it's very bohemian to be able to fit your life into one suitcase. She probably just doesn't 'get it.'

 **6:21 PM**

"So," George prompts as they make their way down the stairs, "how many boys did you have chasing after you this semester?"

"I don't have boys chasing after me," Anne says.

"I don't really believe that."

"Believe whatever you want," she says lightly, "I've been busy with school. My scholarship's pretty strict," Anne explains when George opens the door to the entrance for her and holds it.

"Well, if you ever fall behind on the requirements, it's not like dad can't cover you."

"Oh…" Anne trails off, "I guess you don't know."

"Know what?"

"I'll tell you later, George, okay?" she says as they walk down the sidewalk, she points to Lizzy's car.

Lizzy waves and unlocks the door when she sees them. Anne pops the trunk and George puts his suitcase in on top of all of the girls' luggage and closes it, then follows Anne and slides into the backseat of the Saturn.

Mary turns around from the front passenger seat and visibly startles when she sees George, her response almost verbatim to Anne's, she says, "God, George…have you been on some weird diet or something? You know you don't need to lose weight, right?"

"Thank you, darling," he says, taking her hand and kissing it, "you're too kind. It's all the rage: my weight loss secret is something called 'cigarettes.'"

"George!" Mary scolds.

"It's an appetite suppressant," he says with a shrug, "keeps you on your feet…oh, hi, I'm sorry, I'm being rude," he continues, offering his hand to Lizzy, "I'm George, Mary and Anne's brother."

"I know!" she says brightly, taking his hand and shaking it, "I'm Mary's girlfriend, nice to meet you."

"Oh, yeah, well, it was nice of you to drive all this way-"

"Oh, no, I was going to New York, anyway. D.C.'s on the way."

"Well, it's sweet of you, anyway. Thanks for picking me up, hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," she says, starting her car up, "can I get some directions to your house?"

Mary pulls it up on Google Maps and lets the GPS voice direct them out of Capitol neighborhood and towards Hever Street.

 **6:47 PM**

Once Lizzy's dropped them off, all the Boleyn siblings stand on the sidewalk in front of their house, suitcases on the ground. George looks at the light in the window nervously, and Mary is bouncing from foot to foot.

There's a sign outside their childhood home that's been there since any of them can remember. It says "Hever House, built in 1914". Their father used to host tours, make a little money off tourists that were on the waiting list for White House tours or killing time before it. They'd always come in at the worst times. Mary and Anne would be doing homework at the dining room table in their Catholic school uniforms, and the tourists would walk past and gawk, less mature boys would elbow each other, and the sisters would exchange borderline telepathic looks, gather their stuff, and head off to the library instead.

It's an off-white house with tall windows and lace doily curtains that their mother put up and their father never took down, though he always complained about them during her life. It has a wrap-around porch on the first story, a balcony on the second, and a brick walkway up to the entrance.

Anne always thought it looked elegant, loved living in a house with history, a house that had avoided renovations for the most part, but for some reason, at this moment, it looks small to her.

"So… _what_ did you tell dad, exactly?" George asks

"Hmm?" Anne asks, checking her phone.

"You know, our _father_? How'd you get him to agree to me staying here?"

"Oh," Anne says breezily, taking a deep breath, "I didn't do that."

" _What?!_ " George and Mary exclaim in unison.

"Oh, c'mon guys," Anne says, walking up the path to their front door, "like dad would _really_ say yes over the phone. My 'doe eyes' don't work over the phone, if you recall," Anne teases, winking at George over her shoulder as she walks up the steps of their front porch to the door.

"No," Anne says, ringing the doorbell as her siblings catch up with her, "it'll be harder for him to say 'no' to me in person. That's why I'm going with the element of surprise."

"Anne… _dear_ sister," George drawls, "you realize he can still say no, right?"

"I'll do my best, and hopefully he won't."

 **6:53 PM**

 _Hever Street feels familiar_ , Anne thinks as she waits for her father to answer the door. It should, since it's where she's spent the majority of her life, but for some reason it feels like she's been gone for five years rather than just five months. It's like university is the land of the fae and _this_ is the real world.

Mary and Anne are standing together at the front door, but George is hanging behind, waiting on the bottom porch step.

After the shock of seeing George look so different from the last time she saw him, Anne is relieved to see her father still looks much the same: dark hair with waves of salt and pepper, some lines around his twinkling eyes, but all in all he is the picture of robust health.

"My girls!" Thomas Boleyn exclaims, laughing, as he pulls both Mary and Anne in for an embrace, "I'm so glad to see…"

Anne assumes that means he's seen George.

Their father lets go of them, then looks to Mary, then Anne, and asks lowly, "what is he doing here?"

"Well, Dad," Anne says, "George is in a bit of a spot, and he needs a place to stay, so I thought-"

"Absolutely not," he says firmly.

Anne startles at the harshness of his tone. Her father almost _never_ interrupts her. In fact, during her childhood he talked over foreign dignitaries more often than he talked over his youngest daughter.

"But, Dad," Anne whispers, even though she knows her brother can probably hear her anyway, she thinks a quiet tone might convey more urgency, "if you had _seen_ the place he was living…they didn't even have heat, when I used the bathroom I could see my _breath_ , it was terrible!"

"Well, _maybe_ he should get a better job."

"Don't have a job!" George calls out, "hi, dad. Happy holidays," he says, blowing air onto his hands and rubbing them together.

" _That's_ surprising," Thomas says dryly, "but explain to me, Anne, why I should let him mooch and stay at _my_ home?"

"I won't mooch," George interjects eagerly, "I mean, I can't really pay anything right now, but I can do chores, I'll stay in my room, I won't bother-"

"Your _room_? Your room…let's see…I converted that into a study. Yes, when six months passed without so much as a _phone call_ from my son, I guess I didn't figure you'd have any use for it."

"Right," George says, "well, that's fair. But I can sleep on the floor, or the couch-"

"I just don't think it's going to work. My _daughters_ , however, are more than welcome to come in," Thomas says, nodding to them, "come, it's cold outside."

Well, looks like it's time for Anne's Hail Mary. It's either going to work or it's going to backfire terribly: there is no in between. Anne knows this, so she steels herself before using it.

"Dad," she says, "you _know_ mom would've wanted you to let him stay."

Her dad's face falls, and he looks away from her to Mary, who gives him a soft smile.

 _Good_ , Anne thinks; given that Mary is the Boleyn sibling that resembles their mother the most, that might just seal the deal.

Each sister took after one parent. Mary has her mother's wheat-colored hair, the wide smile, the blue, clear, easily readable eyes; eyes that set people at ease. Anne has her father's dark hair, the knowing smirk, the dark brown, unfathomable, piercing eyes that make people nervous.

Mary possesses a soft, gentle prettiness, one people notice right away. Maybe Anne used to envy it, because she knew it was something she'll never have, that unmissable, modelesque quality. But Anne knows her beauty is something that can be discovered in layers, and maybe it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of beauty, but it's beauty all the same. Mary is pretty and that's something Anne will never manage, no matter how much makeup she puts on to soften her catlike eyes, her face will never by symmetrical, but Anne is striking and that's something Mary will never be able to manage, winged eyeliner or no.

So, Anne figures, it all comes out in the wash. She doesn't mind it so much anymore.

"I suppose…you can stay-"

"Yes!" George says, pumping his fist.

"But no more than a few weeks. I can't have someone live here and not pay rent, I have bills-"

"Totally fair! Totally fair," George says, coming up the steps, "I only need a place to stay till the end of December."

"No later than that," Thomas says firmly.

 _Hail 'Mary', indeed._

 **7:00 PM**

Once inside the house, Mary sidles up to her father and whispers to him, "Dad, I don't know if you saw, but-"

"Oh, Anne!" he says, completely ignoring her, "I almost forgot to tell you, you have mail- quite a bit of it. I left it for you on the dining room table… _Mary_ , can I get your coat for you?"

"No, that's _fine_ ," she snaps, beelining for the table and picking up Anne's stack of mail, cutting right in front of Anne as she does so.

"Mary, what are you-"

"You know what?" Mary says, moving the envelopes on top and sliding them into a magazine within the stack, "why don't I put this upstairs for you?"

Thomas sits down at the dining room table, grabs his newspaper and scans it, observing this strange occurrence in beats in between the lines he reads.

"O- _kay_ ," Anne says, brow furrowing, "if you want, just put them on my bed, then, I guess?"

" _You're_ being weird," George interjects.

"I'm not being weird!" Mary insists in a breathy voice, "I'm just going to put this away-"

"What _is_ it?" George asks, tugging at the magazine and grinning.

"No, George, give it- give it _back_!"

Anne watches as they almost tear the magazine in half, but George wrests it from her and ends up running up the stairs with it, Mary running up after him.

"Mature as ever," Thomas says, "Anne, would you like a section?"

They used to read the paper together every morning. _Maybe he misses it_ , she thinks.

"Ah, no, Dad, thanks, I'm gonna…go see what _that's_ all about."

Anne shoulders her duffel bag and makes her way up the stairs.

Once she makes it to the top of the stairs, she notices George and Mary whispering together intently.

"Anne!" Mary says, "look, I wanted to-"

"I cannot _believe_ ," George says to Anne in a hushed voice, stack of mail still in his hands, "that _you_ got a sugar daddy to pay for college! I just wouldn't have expected it from-"

"What? George, honestly, _what_ are you babbling about?!" Anne snaps irritably.

She's exhausted from the journey and desperately in need of a shower, and she honestly just doesn't want to deal with his weirdness right now, and also Mary and George are blocking her bedroom door.

"No, I mean, it's impressive, really…I don't judge you, if that's what you're thinking," he says quickly, "I mean, I can't say I haven't thought of the idea myself a few times…"

"What on _earth_ are you-"

"Well, what else?" he says smugly, opening Anne's door and walking inside her room ( _rude_ , she thinks, but not really surprising- this sort of presumption is not really unusual for her brother), "Henry Tudor."

" _What?!_ " Anne exclaims, following him into her bedroom and dropping her duffel bag on the floor.

"I mean, he's _old_ …he's like, sixty. Or something."

Mary is hovering behind her, "Anne, wait-"

Anne snatches her mail from George, frustrated, and he puts his hands up in a don't-shoot position.

"Wait, Anne, I need to tell you something," Mary insists in a panicked voice, watching helplessly as Anne opens the magazines an slides the envelopes she saw her older sister hide away.

Henry Tudor

594 S Mapleton Drive

Holmby Hills, Los Angeles, CA, 90024

Anne Boleyn

1526 Hever Road

Washington, DC, 20009

" _What_?" Anne asks, eyes scanning the return address and hers, in disbelief, her hands start to tremble, and she takes a seat on her bed.

"God, you're like a parrot," George teases, "'what, what, whattt'- Ow!" he yelps, when Mary punches him in the shoulder, he rubs it, "what the hell, Mary-"

"How did he get-"

"Look, Anne, I can explain…" Mary pleads, pushing George aside.

"How did he…how did he get my…oh my _God, his_ dad, his dad must know-"

"His _dad_? Anne, you really went Anna Nicole Smith on this one, geez, I didn't even know Tudor's dad was _alive_ , he must be ancient-"

"No!" Anne snaps, "these aren't from Henry Tudor the I, they're from his son, he goes to Whitehall with us, and-"

" _Oooh_ , wow," George says appreciatively, "now, _he's_ hot, honestly…good, because I know I _said_ I wasn't judging you, but I was judging you a little bit."

It's definitely Henry's handwriting, Anne notes as she reads the addresses again and again, the letters starting to blur before her eyes, she recognizes it from tutoring, tutoring and the notes they passed during.

"I don't know, I don't know how else he could've gotten my address," Anne says, shaking her head, "I…there's…it had to have been his dad, I guess his dad knows everything, he's the smartphone CEO of the world or whatever, he probably has access to every smartphone, and I have a smartphone, or maybe he bribed someone from the registar's office, oh _God_ -"

"No, no, Anne," Mary says, " _I_ gave him your address, okay?"

"Why would you do-"

"He asked for it, before we found out about the engagement," Mary says, wringing her hands, "he said it was for something…romantic."

" _Oh_."

"But then, yeah, we all found out he was engaged and it was too late, I couldn't take it back from him, I couldn't _un_ -give it to him, so-"

Anne's hands are still shaking, as she stammers, "oh, oh, okay, well-"

" _Engaged_? Oh my God," George says, "if college had been this juicy when I went I definitely would have stuck it out…I need, like _popcorn_ for this-"

" _George_! This isn't entertainment, it's Anne's _life_ ," Mary scolds.

"Oh, please. Tell me you _wouldn't_ watch the Anne and Henry story if it was on TV-"

"Shut _up_!" Mary snaps, face turning red.

"No, no, it's fine," Anne says, turning the envelope over in her hands, "I would think this were very entertaining, I'm sure, if it weren't happening to me."

"Dinner's here!" Thomas yells.

"We should go downstairs," Anne says (her hands feel numb now, but at least they've stopped shaking), putting the envelope she's holding on the pile, "let's go."

"Anne," Mary says, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Let's go eat."

 **7:58 PM**

After a very awkward dinner, full of stilted conversations over containers of Thai takeout at the dining room table, Anne excuses herself. She lets her father know that she's exhausted from all the traveling, that she's probably going to go to sleep now, actually, and he nods his understanding and kisses her on the cheek.

 **8:03 PM**

Anne shuts her door behind her and goes to her bed, the comforting familiarity of her old the Little Mermaid bedspread soothing her.

She looks at her pile of mail on the foot of the bed, feeling like it's mocking her, like a ticking time bomb.

She doesn't want to see what's inside, but she knows she's going to open them anyway. So she might as well do it now.

So Anne picks her purse up from the floor, rifles around for her iPod and portable speakers, and hooks them up, putting her music on shuffle.

She gets up, turns off the main light, then turns on her lamp, tugging at the wooden star on the end of the string.

Anne settles into bed, and picks up the envelope that's postmarked the earliest, ripping it carefully.

The song they played at her high school graduation is playing. She always thought it was stupid (she's not sure why she even has it on her iPod, actually), but it doesn't seem so stupid now.

 _"i said 'remember this moment'/in the back of my mind/the time we stood with our shaking hands/the crowds in stands went wild/we were the kings and the queens/and they read off our names/the night you danced like you knew our lives would never be the same…"_

The memory comes to her, unbidden, but she can't stop it:

" _And…Perseverance!"_

" _Gentleness! Nobleness! Youth! And…Amorous!"_

" _Who are you?" Henry asks, leading her down the length of the dance floor._

 _She dances another circle around him as she answers teasingly, "I'm Perseverance– remember?"_

" _And do you," he asks, leading her to the left, then the right, "persevere?"_

" _Always," she says, curtsying low to the floor._

 _Henry leans down, lifts her chin up gently. Her eyes meet his, matching his steady gaze, a challenge._

 _He lets go, then takes her hand to pull her up._

 _He dips her low; pulls her up to him again._

" _And are you," she counters, "amorous?"_

 _At this point he holds her from behind, moving side to side. He keeps her there, a beat too long, to whisper to her:_

" _ **Always**_ _."_

 _The music stops and the guests cheer._

 _Anne is still kneeling, breathless from the intensity and speed of the dance, still holding hands with Henry._

 _He's staring at her as if she is the only thing in the world not spinning. It makes her feel strangely untethered, like maybe she's not really here at all…_

 _That's enough of that_ , she scolds herself, unfolding the paper inside.

"November 23, 2016, Wednesday

Anne-

I have to write this knowing that by the time your eyes reach the end of this letter, you will know surely what it is I feel for you (if I have not blown it already, that is, and told you like a fool by the time you read it).

I don't think I've written a letter since I asked Miranda Schaeffer, to be my valentine in the 4th grade (but then, she had nothing on you).

But here goes.

Confession #1: I think about you.

-Henry"

Anne runs her index finger up and down the page, again and again, as if she's in a trance.

 _"I think about you."_

The necklace that was like a locket, only with an envelope at the end instead of a heart, an envelope that snapped open and shut like a real letter…the necklace she returned to him…

He sent her this after their first( _no, not first_ , _only, only, only_ , Anne scolds herself like a mantra, because 'first' implied that there would a second kiss, perhaps many more to come, and that was _not_ the case, not the case _at all_ ).

He sent this letter after the party when they spoke on the balcony about things they had lost, things they missed:

 _"I miss my brother, George. But I don't think he'll be invited home, honestly. I'll probably try to meet up with him beforehand."_

 _"Why do you miss him?"_

 _"Because…he wrote to me. Actual letters, back when we were kids and at different summer camps. And then later, when I was in high school and he lived in Europe."_

She remembers the easiness of telling him that, the confession rolling off her tongue, how he listened, really listened, listened intently, like what she had to say was important, like it mattered, like he didn't want to miss anything.

 _"Letters? As in, pen to paper, put it in an envelope letters?"_

Anne remembers the incredulity that was in his voice.

 _"Yes! I miss them. I'm sad I missed the era where people had to make…a real_ _ **effort**_ _to reach you. To say whatever it was they wanted to say, to share their thoughts. I don't know, I guess I miss the excitement of getting one in the mail, miss tearing the envelope. Getting a new text doesn't match it, somehow."_

She had told him she missed letters.

And, apparently, he had taken note.

The next envelope has a different return address on it:

Henry Tudor

441 E 87th St

New York, NY, 10128

Anne Boleyn

1526 Hever Road

Washington, DC, 20009

"November 24, 2016, Thursday

You didn't think that was it, did you?

It's Thanksgiving. Again, I don't know when you'll read this.

Again, I can't help but write it.

You said you miss letters, the effort, the tearing of the envelope, that you wish more people wrote them.

I hope these make up for the previous lack.

Confession #2: I dream about you.

My first dream was the night after the Virtues' Masquerade.

I could see your face without the mask, but I wasn't able to recall it when I woke.

It drove me crazy.

As do you.

-Henry"

 _"you held your head like a hero/on a history book page/it was the end of a decade/but the start of an age…"_

Henry Tudor

441 E 87th St

New York, NY, 10128

Anne Boleyn

1526 Hever Road

Washington, DC, 20009

"November 25, 2016, Friday

My father (who definitely celebrates Thanksgiving, unlike yours- any chance to eat a lot, any excuse to watch football) asked me if I was sick yesterday. I hardly ate a thing

I haven't been eating, haven't been sleeping much.

All I can think about is you- it's maddening, really.

I know the kiss was a stage direction, hardly anything at all to you, maybe, but I remember it and toss and turn at night. Wishing I could kiss you again, that it could be real.

And then my stomach is in knots, thinking of the letters I've already sent…the fact that it will several weeks till you read them, that I have no idea how you'll react.

Every time I hand one over to our maid and ask her if she can drop it off at the post office for me, my hands tremble.

What an embarrassing thing to admit.

But thinking of your honesty and bravery makes me want to be brave, too, so…there it is.

Confession #3: I want you (more than I've ever wanted anyone).

-Henry "

 _"long live/the walls we crashed through/how the kingdom lights shined just for me and you/i was screaming long live/all the magic we made/and bring out all the pretenders…one day, we will be remembered"_


	23. Chapter 23

**author's note: hello! okay so if you want updates more frequently i would recommend checking this story out on archiveofourown. it's under the same author handle that i have on here, boleynqueens, and the same title "whitehall university". and i update chapters on there as soon as i finish them. that's not me trying to be mean, i have a few reasons for it: 1.) formatting on AO3 in much easier than here, i can do page breaks, i can do block quotes for letters/texts/emails, i can write links, i can write excessive punctuation (people text message with excessive punctuation so i feel it's realistic, but it FF doesn't let me do so), 2.) i can easily reply to all comments, even guest comments, which i can't do on here, and i very much enjoy communicating with my readers, so that's important to me (for example i have 70 comments and 37 kudos on archiveofourown versus 14 reviews on here, despite having more views on ff than AO3), 3) it's a lot easier to edit after i've posted and i notice a typo…here i have to upload a whole other document but on archive i just have to click to edit the text, 4) i can post links for the songs/soundtrack to this story in both the beginning notes and end notes.**

 **if you want to keep reading the story on here i still appreciate it, and i'll still try to update on here as well when i can. just a note that posting on AO3 is a priority for me, reiterating that it's not me trying to be mean/unfair to my readers on here, who i also appreciate, that it's only for the reasons posted above.**

 **anyway, happy reading!**

After reading the first three letters, Anne goes to her bathroom and takes a long, gratifying shower. She towels off, changes into a long t-shirt and sweats, then tries to go to bed.

She fails, because she can't stop thinking that there are more envelopes, and that they have _words_ inside of them. _His_ words. That he wrote for _her_.

Frustrated with herself, Anne kicks her blankets off, then turns her lamp back on, grabbing the opened letters she's left on her nightstand.

Anne puts all three letters back into their corresponding envelopes, neatly and carefully, before leaving her bedroom and making her way downstairs.

She rummages through the cupboard for the tea kettle, finds it, goes to the sink and fills it with water.

Anne opens the cupboard above the stove and pulls out a box of tea, finds a mug, takes a tea bag and puts it in, then waits.

The routine soothes her.

A watched pot never boils, so they say, so maybe if she just stands here and stares at it she'll never have to go upstairs and inevitably read the rest of the letters, inevitably shed tears over things that can't be, inevitably…

"What're you doing up?"

George appears in the doorway of the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep," she says simply, crossing her arms, "you?"

"You woke me up…what are you making?"

"Green tea," she answers.

"That won't help you sleep. It's got caffeine."

"Yeah, like _twenty_ milligrams. _Please_."

"You _would_ know that…addict."

"Coffee over cigarettes," she counters.

"True…"

Anne crosses the kitchen from where she's been leaning against the wall and grabs George's bare arm, searching.

"What are you-"

"Looking for track marks," she says honestly, eyes roaming over his arm.

"Oh, geez, Anne, why would you think-"

"You're too thin," she says, a sob caught in her throat, "and you lived in that terrible neighborhood, so it's possible, and I don't know, I don't know what else to think-"

"Sister," he says, pulling his arm from her grip and taking her hand instead, "I promise you, nothing has passed through these veins but nicotine and caffeine in years. I haven't done so much as a bump of coke since college. Scout's honor," he says, raising his other hand.

"Boy Scouts don't do cocaine _ever_ ," Anne says, sniffling, "and you weren't even _in_ Boy Scouts, anyway."

"Maybe not, but the sentiment's the same," he says, smiling, desperately trying to cheer her up, "you want to know why I've lost weight?"

Anne nods.

" _Poverty_. I can't afford to buy food. It's sad, but that's all, that's the _only_ reason. I promise."

"Okay," she says, kissing his hand and letting go of it before padding over to turn the heat off the burner, tea kettle whistling, "I believe you."

"Good. Now…on to cheerier topics," he continues, watching her as she pours hot water into the mug, " _you_ are the recipient of love letters."

"That's not cheery- will you grab me some milk?"

George walks over to the fridge and grabs a half gallon, putting it on the island for her.

"How can it _not_ be cheery?"

"Because he has a fiancee," she says, pouring the milk in and capping it.

"Okay, fair enough. But…you have _letters_."

"So?" she says, cupping the mug in her hands and blowing on it before taking a careful sip.

"Anne, this is 2016. Noah writing Allie letters was not even a big deal, compared to this."

"What?"

" _The Notebook_?! Honestly, I swear, sometimes it's like we're not even _related_."

"Oh…Ryan Gosling?"

"Yes, dreamy pre-nose-job Ryan Gosling."

"How's it not a big deal-"

"Because it was the 50s'! They didn't even have email! They barely had telephones. If you wanted to tell someone you liked them you had to write letters. If your beau went overseas, you wrote him letters. It was _expected_."

"I am not getting what you're throwing down here-"

"Lucas writing Brooke-"

"Who?" Anne asks.

" _One Tree Hill_ , oh my GOD. Anyway…Lucas writing Brooke all those letters was a _slightly_ bigger deal than the Notebook, because they had cell phones and emails and IM and shit in the early 2000s. But texting was archaic, there were character limits and no unlimited texting so you could get overages, AOL took fucking forever to dial up and…anyway. It was before your time," he says dramatically, running a hand through his thick hair, "I don't expect you to understand the struggle, but people still wrote letters, let's just say that."

" _Okaaay_ …and?"

"But this is 2016! No one fucking writes letters anymore! The Internet is fast! Your text gets sent to someone in five seconds! No one gets overages except on data, wi-fi is everywhere, email is easy and super-fast, the US Postal Service is on the brink of bankruptcy and futility because no one even sends Christmas cards in the mail anymore! The only thing keeping it afloat is people ordering shit from Amazon alone in their room at midnight-"

"George!" Anne exclaims, drinking her tea, "the point?"

"The _point_ , darling," he says, crossing his arms, "is that most people these days count themselves lucky if they get a 'you up?' text from the object of their affections. 'You up?' Two words. Typed out and sent in less than two seconds. While running on a treadmill, while fucking around on Facebook, while taking a shit-"

"George!"

"What? Anne, _don't_ be naive, people stay on their phones when they defeca-"

"La, la, la!" Anne whisper-shouts (remembering that Mary and her father are probably asleep upstairs), putting her tea down on the counter and putting both hands over her ears.

"And you," he continues insistently, moving one of the hands from her ears, "got letters. Did you count how many?"

"No."

"Even _one_ would've been a big deal. I counted them while Mary was about to murder me. You got _nine_."

"So…?" she trails off, picking her mug up and drinking her tea.

"So. Fiancee or not, that boy is plainly in love with you."

"You haven't even read them, how would you-"

"You want me to read them?"

" _No_!" Anne says emphatically.

" _That's_ funny, because what I just heard," he says impishly, "is 'George, please tell me, in your expert opinion, if American royalty boy is in love with me-'"

"George, do _not_ -"

"Well, dear sister, I'd be delighted!" he says before making a mad dash for the stairs.

"George," she hisses, leaving her tea behind, and racing after him, "you're going to wake up-"

He always was faster than her, she thinks as she bursts into her room, and sees him with one of the letters already in his hands.

Anne closes the door behind her and runs to him, trying to wrest the letter from his hand (she doesn't want it to rip, but _God, this is none of his business!_ ), but he darts around the room, reading aloud:

"'My stomach is in knots'…Christ, is he in 5th grade? This is _hilarious_ -"

"George, give it back!"

Anne _really_ wishes she was taller in this moment, because trying to jump to snatch the letter from his hand as he swats her like a fly is s _omewhat_ demeaning.

" 'Confession: _I want you_ '," he reads, laughing, " _Jesus_ ….

Anne twists his arm behind his back and he yelps, throwing the paper he had in his other hand like he's on fire, "Jesus, what is wrong with-"

"What is wrong with _you_?" Anne demands hotly, picking the paper up from her bed and folding it carefully.

"You _like_ him!"

"Shut _up_."

"Okay, _but_ , consider _this_ ;" he continues as she pushes him towards the door, reaching behind him and pushing the doorknob open, "you _really_ like him."

" _Bye_ , George!" she says, all but shoving him out of her room and shutting the door behind him, twisting the lock shut in case he gets any ideas about teasing her further.

 **1:01 AM**

Anne settles back into bed, puts her iPod on shuffle again, and opens the next letter.

 _"you only know what i want you to…" -_ 'poison and wine' by the civil wars

"November 28, 2016, Monday

You were working today.

I'm sorry Brandon dropped his coffee. I tried to clean it up with napkins, best I could.

I'm wasting stamps sending these by day, but it seems cheap to stuff a bunch of letters in one envelope.

I don't trust the mail service at Whitehall- more lost packages than received ones, it seems -so I walked to the post office today.

It's good exercise.

I was asked for change five times, and someone offered me a modeling contract, on the walk there. That's Los Angeles for you, I guess.

Confession #4: I only go to the student café when I can see you through the window.

-Henry

PS: I think your uniform was created by a perv…that skirt…but it's awesome to see your legs. You dress so modestly otherwise. I think you have a bigger collection of turtlenecks than any girl I've ever met…no idea why you want to cover up that pretty neck of yours.

Or anything else, for that matter."

 **1:11 AM**

Anne remembers the day he's talking about.

She was still smarting from Brandon's reveal.

Henry had come up to the counter with a smirking Brandon.

"Shouldn't you be taking the day off? Are you feeling better?" Henry had asked, leaning over after Brandon ordered their coffees, voice lowered.

Anne hadn't known what he was talking about, but answered reflexively, "a little better, mainly it's just a sinus headache…thank you for the gift bag."

Brandon's eyebrows had shot up at that.

" _Gift bag_?" Brandon teased.

Henry's elfish ears had turned red at the tips, but he had ignored his friend, instead replied to her thanks, with a "you're welcome, try the Tylenol for the headache, it's extra strength," drumming his fingers on the counter and winking before pulling a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and shoving it into the tip jar.

Anne's coworker told her she'd take over the register and asked her to clean the steamer.

So Anne was wiping it down with a view of the counter by the window that had the cream, sugars, napkins, and wooden stir sticks.

Henry was putting another cardboard sleeve over his cup whilst Brandon was ripping packets of sugar over his.

Anne hadn't been able to make much out, but she did hear ' _gift bag_ …honestly' in Brandon's voice, did see Brandon elbow Henry before Henry jabbed him back, eliciting a yelp from Brandon, and then suddenly Brandon's coffee had ended up on the floor.

 **1:14 AM**

"November 29, 2016, Tuesday

Tutoring today. I'm dropping this off before we start…did you know the post office opens at 8:00 AM? Amazingly early, no? Our tax dollars at work, I guess. It's wonderful

How am I supposed to concentrate on my present and past participles, the gender of adjectives, how to ask for directions to the train station, etc., when my tutor is goddamn stunning?

When she absolutely floors me?

You tell me. I haven't got a clue.

Confession #5: Your handwriting is messier than mine, even- you know that, right?

Everything else about you is so well put-together that it's almost comforting.

And I love deciphering it. Think I've gotten pretty good at it, actually.

You write with a slant, and it leaves ink stains on the side of your hands. I notice them, blue and black smudges there as you hand me my coffee, tuck your hair behind your ear, put your headphones in.

-Henry"

 **1:18 AM**

 _"What can I say, I like inkstains."_

Anne recalls a detail in that memory, zooming in as if she's watching it play out on a screen: the little smile that had tugged at his mouth when she said that while they were in the elevator together, a smile like a twitch, one she'd noticed despite herself out of the corner of her eye. He had covered his mouth with his hand right afterwards, as if trying to hide it.

She remembers because it had infuriated her at the time- _what_ was he smiling about? She wasn't being subtle about the fact that she was mad at him.

Well, now she knows.

 **1:21 AM**

"November 30, 2016, Wednesday

I've made an awful mess of things, I suppose.

I hope you can forgive me, hope you can give me a chance to explain- I know it's more than I deserve.

Confession #6: I wish you would

-Henry"

 _"i know everything you don't want me to…" -_ 'poison and wine' by the civil wars

 **1:23 AM**

"December 4th, 2016, Sunday

I was going to walk straight back to my dorm after I left you, and I did. Now I'm writing this at my desk. I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a while, so I'm going to walk to the nearest letterbox off campus and drop this off.

Only Jen Parker could throw a party during finals week, and only she could get so many people to show up despite it…

Fair point with that song, I guess. Almost like you prepared it. With Wyatt…did you?

You have a pretty singing voice, at any rate.

Confession #7: I love that you told Buckingham off. Someone should've, a long time ago. And I agree with you.

-Henry

PS: I wanted to kiss you tonight (in case you had any doubts). "

 _your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine… -_ 'poison and wine' by the civil wars

"December 5, 2016, Monday

Thank you for helping me study, despite everything.

I know I couldn't possibly have helped you as much as you helped me.

Confession #8: I've never felt this way about anyone before.

-Henry"

 _you think your dreams are the same as mine -_ 'poison and wine' by the civil wars

"December 7, 2016, Wednesday

Why did you return my gift? Did you not like it?

Confession #9: I already miss you.

-Henry"

 **1:59 AM**

"New York Daily News, February 12, 2009

Elizabeth York, age 37, passed away last night on her birthday. The cause of death has not yet been confirmed, but it is known that it occurred shortly after childbirth.

It is hard to say what she will be most remembered for: her career as a model and starring role in the popular soap, _Pray to Venus_? Her marriage to Henry Tudor, CEO and founder of _Red Dragon_?

Or perhaps her parents; their marriage, after all, is still talked about to this day. It is the marriage that rocked the country: handsome, rich entrepreneur and then-Senator Edward York and the beautiful then-waitress, Elizabeth Woodville, five years his senior, caused quite the scandal. It sent the tabloids into a frenzy, stirred class tensions, and the disapproval of his family for this controversial match was well-known.

Perhaps she will be most remembered for her charity work. It was certainly notable, she was a patron of dozens of organizations and spoke out about a wide range of issues, from homelessness to child poverty, and used her fame to raise awareness for the issues that were closest to her heart.

She is survived by her husband, Henry Tudor; her mother, Elizabeth Woodville; her sisters, Cecily, Mary, Margaret, Anne, Catherine, and Bridget York; and her [redacted] children: [redacted] Henry Tudor, Margaret Tudor, Marina Tudor, and Katherine Tudor (born yesterday)."

 **2:15 AM**

"Star Magazine (online), May, 1, 2009

Henry Tudor broke down on the stand today.

A man notorious for his stoicism, rumors are flying that Henry Tudor crying during his testimony was merely a ploy to gain sympathies of the jury.

Nodlon Tower Hospital has characterized Tudor's sudden suit against the hospital on the grounds of negligence he says caused the death of his wife as "ruthless".

It was an emotional scene, to be sure: [redacted] and Henry Tudor II sat in the front row of the courtroom. The younger Henry ran to the witness stand his father stood behind, ignoring the Judge's calls for order in the court.

The female members of the jury's hands went to their hearts as the 12-year-old Tudor son hugged his father.

The Judge called for a recess, and cameras flashed during the emotionally wrought moment, pictured below:

 _Henry Sr. and Jr. in a grief-filled embrace, tears flowing from both sides._ "

 **December 13, 2016, Tuesday, 9:36 AM, Washington, D.C**

"Anne?"

Thomas Boleyn knocks on Anne's bedroom door again, then opens it gently, cup of coffee in hand.

His youngest daughter is asleep on top of her covers, tablet hugged to her chest, a pile of papers on her nightstand.

Thomas puts the coffee next to the papers (he knows she'll want it as soon as she gets up, cold or not), and pulls the comforter over her, tucking her in.

He eases the tablet out of her grip, then, curiosity getting the better of him, unlocks it see what she fell asleep reading to.

There are two tabs open. Both are from tabloids, the sort Mary might read.

Anne has always said that she'll never read an unreliable news source, so it surprises him to see _Star_ and _New York Daily News_ on her browser.

He shakes his head, turns it to sleep mode, and puts it on her table.

 **December 13, 2016, Tuesday, 1:38 PM, New York City, NY**

"Henry!"

Henry, who's rearranging books on his shelf, doesn't turn around or respond.

Margaret notes the head phones over his ears, the wire that travels down his back and ends in the back pocket of his jeans. She turns to her sisters, index finger over her lips, and tip-toes behind him, disconnecting the headphones and sliding his phone out of his pocket.

 _That_ gets his attention.

He spins around, throws his headphones off and onto his bed, and lunges after her, but she dances away quickly ( _ballet's not useless after all, it seems_ ).

"Learn to _knock_ ," he snaps, "and give me my phone back, klepto!"

"This," Margaret says, passing her brother's phone over to Marina, "is an intervention."

"Margaret," he says evenly, "Marina. Elizabeth. I am _really_ not in the mood."

"That's the point. You've been _in_ a mood. Since we've gotten back. And you need to play ping-pong with us, because we don't have enough players," Marina explains, darting away from him as he tries to reclaim his phone.

"Ask Kate," he says.

"Kate's playing the violin for Daddy," Elizabeth explains.

"Then _wait for her_."

"No. And she's _only_ seven, anyway" Elizabeth says solemnly, all of eleven years herself, "we don't want to _hurt_ her."

"What are you doing, anyway, huh?" Margaret asks.

"Organizing my-"

"You know we have servants that do that, right?"

"Builds character. You could use some," he snarks.

"Why are you listening to emo music?" Marina asks, squinting at his phone.

"I'm not listening to-"

"Oh my God! This song's like a hundred years old," Marina squeals, giggling .

" _Hardly_ , it's ten years old, at most, give me my-"

"Might as well be," Marina says, tossing the phone to Elizabeth. It arcs perfectly in the air, and she catches it, almost dropping it, then passes it to Margaret.

"Henry doesn't listen to- oh my God, _Henry_ ," Margaret says, aghast, she puts a hand over her heart, "why are you listening to _emo music_?"

" _Christ_ , I'm not listening to 'emo music', would you all just-"

Margaret holds his phone over her head and presses 'play', accusation in her eyes:

 _"all of the things that i want to say/just aren't coming out right/i'm tripping on words/you got my head spinning/i don't know where to go from here"_

Henry snatches his phone back from Margaret's hand and turns it off, pocketing it ( _front_ pocket this time, he makes sure of that).

"You are all _literally_ the worst. Get out of my room," Henry says, "NOW."

"At least you weren't listening to Nickelback," Marina says with a shrug, tiptoeing backwards towards the door, "that's the only thing I can think of that's worse than _Lifehouse_ …"

"I don't know if he can be helped, honestly," Margaret says, "he doesn't even really seem that ashamed."

" _You_ listen to Taylor Swift!" he accuses, jabbing a finger at her.

" _Et tu, Brute_?" Margaret asks.

"Taylor Swift _is_ pretty emo, Mar," Marina agrees.

"Taylor Swift's songs are _wrought_ with emotion," Elizabeth chimes in, "so one might say, by the traditional definition of the word, that she's the most 'emo' musician of them all. It's maybe not your place to judge, Margaret."

"I _hate_ this fucking family!" Margaret exclaims, storming out of Henry's room and slamming the door behind her.

Elizabeth and Marina look at each other.

"I guess we can just play against each other?" Marina asks her.

"I guess," Elizabeth says with a sigh.

Henry rolls his eyes, goes around them and throws the door open.

"Buh _bye_!" he says, waving to emphasize that it's time for their exit.

" _Seriously_ , though, what's crawled up your ass?" Marina demands, hands on her hips, grey eyes smoldering with heat, "you have been nothing but fucking miserable since-"

" _Language_ ," he warns, gesturing to Elizabeth, "please."

"No," Elizabeth says, "I agree, you've been 'fucking miserable'. I don't usually condone the use of such words, but there's really no other accurate way to describe it."

Henry sighs, then puts both hands on Elizabeth's shoulders, kneeling so that he's eye-level with her.

"You're absolutely right, I'm sorry. I'll try to be nicer. But right now I need to be alone."

"Why?" she asks, eyes wide, looking at him very directly in that way that only children can.

"Because," he says, tugging at one of her reddish-gold plaits, "I'm sad, okay?"

"But, _why_?"

"Someone…didn't want a present I got them," he finally decides on, "and it hurt my feelings. Is that a good enough answer for you?"

Elizabeth bites her lip, then looks up at the ceiling, then back to her older brother.

"Why didn't they want it?"

"They didn't tell me why, sweetie."

"Maybe you should ask them," she suggests.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, alright?"

"But…" Elizabeth trails off, then puts a small hand on his face, "if you don't _ask_ , how will you know?"

"What?"

"If you don't _ask_ a person about their reasons for doing things, you'll never know. And if you never know," she explains with a shrug, "then you'll never know what to do about it."

"Elizabeth," he says, kissing her on the forehead, "you're a smart one, did you know that?"

" _Yes_."

"No, that's fine, it's not like _I'm_ smart or anything," Marina huffs, all but stamping her foot.

"You," Henry says, getting up to ruffle her hair, "are mouthy. Let's go play."

 **From: Amtrak donotreply**

 **To: henrytudor2 gmail**

 **Sent December 13, 2016, Tuesday, 7:17 PM**

 _This is an automated receipt, do not reply._

First Class Ticket, NYP to WAS, flexible-departure

Amenities Available: Quiet Car, Café Car, Free Wi-fi

TOTAL: $284.98

Credit Card Used: Visa

Points Used: 2,385

Payment Approved: December 13, 2016, 7:08 PM

Thank you for choosing Amtrak. We hope you enjoy your travel.

Reminder: No checked baggage allowed on this train! You may only bring carry-on items onboard. Guidelines on website.


	24. Chapter 24

**author's note: hello! okay so if you want updates more frequently i would recommend checking this story out on archiveofourown. it's under the same author handle that i have on here, boleynqueens, and the same title "whitehall university". and i update chapters on there as soon as i finish them. that's not me trying to be mean, i have a few reasons for it: 1.) formatting on AO3 in much easier than here, i can do page breaks, i can do block quotes for letters/texts/emails, i can write links, i can write excessive punctuation (people text message with excessive punctuation so i feel it's realistic, but it FF doesn't let me do so), 2.) i can easily reply to all comments, even guest comments, which i can't do on here, and i very much enjoy communicating with my readers, so that's important to me (for example i have 70 comments and 37 kudos on archiveofourown versus 14 reviews on here, despite having more views on ff than AO3), 3) it's a lot easier to edit after i've posted and i notice a typo…here i have to upload a whole other document but on archive i just have to click to edit the text, 4) i can post links for the songs/soundtrack to this story in both the beginning notes and end notes.**

 **if you want to keep reading the story on here i still appreciate it, and i'll still try to update on here as well when i can. just a note that posting on AO3 is a priority for me, reiterating that it's not me trying to be mean/unfair to my readers on here, who i also appreciate, that it's only for the reasons posted above.**

 **anyway, happy reading!**

 **December 16, 2016, Friday, 6:04 PM**

The Boleyns are all in their living room, a documentary on the Louvre playing on the TV.

Thomas Boleyn is sitting on his armchair, reading the newspaper, Anne is sitting on the floor, her back against the couch reading _Pride and Prejudice_ , George is sitting on the couch on his laptop, and Mary is sitting next to George, a notebook and pen on her lap.

"Dad, can I change the channel?" Mary asks.

"To what?" Thomas asks, folding his section and turning to the next.

"Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders."

"I think this is a little more educational than a football game."

"Dad," Anne says, turning a page, "you're not even watching."

"And it's not a football game," Mary says irritably, "it's their own show."

"I didn't know cheerleaders had their own shows," Thomas says, bemused.

"Well, Dallas are the best, so they do. Can I put it on, please? I wanted to take notes, get some ideas for my dance team routines…"

"Fine," he says, sighing, he picks the remote up from his armrest, "here."

Mary leans over the table between the armchair and the couch and takes it from him, flipping from BBC to CMT and settling in on the couch, flipping her notebook open.

"Lord," Thomas says, sliding his reading glasses down the bridge of his nose, " _what_ are they wearing?"

"I didn't talk during _your_ thing," Mary points out.

"Dad," Anne says in a warning tone, "be nice."

"I'm being perfectly nice. Anyone with eyes would be wondering the same thing," Thomas says.

"They're wearing their uniforms, Dad, okay? That's what they're wearing. They're trademarked and everything. Anything _else_ you need to know?" Mary asks, gritting her teeth as she tries to focus on the screen.

"Is that the sort of thing you wear, on your team?" he asks, either not picking up on or blatantly ignoring her sarcasm.

"It's…" she trails off, "it depends on the routine and the style of the song, I guess…usually they're a little more covered up than the Dallas Cowboy Uniforms, sure."

"Well, thank God for that. _They,"_ he says emphatically, nodding to the screen, "might as well be strippers. At least it'd be more honest."

 **6:09 PM**

Anne can _feel_ the shift in her older sister, and she's can't even see her- she's sitting in front of the couch, after all, and Mary is sitting behind her.

Anne closes her book and turns around to her side, away from the screen, and watches as Mary's head turns, slowly, towards her father, who's gone back to reading his paper, her eyes wild.

"What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

George takes a sharp intake of breath, biting his fist.

"I said they might as well be strippers, with their so-called 'uniforms'. Almost nothing is covered, they're obviously selling the idea of sex…"

"Excuse me?" Mary asks.

"It's not like what they're doing takes much talent. They're glorified models," he says in a clipped tone.

"They're- they're what?"

"Glorified models."

"And that's what you think I am? A 'glorified model'?"

"You're not a cheerleader, still, are you? I thought you were just on a dance team- Anne, didn't you tell me she's just on the dance team, now? Not both anymore, like she was in high school…"

"She is, but I think you need to-"

"And I think that's just fine," he says condescendingly, reaching over and patting Mary's hand, "just fine. But I don't want to boost the ratings for this…show. If you can call it that. Sorry," he says with a shrug.

Mary bites her lip and she nods, blue eyes filling with tears, "fine," she whispers, grabbing the remote, "I'll change it to your _stupid_ documentary that I'm sure you've already seen."

"Really, Mary, there's no need to be so sensitive. It just doesn't seem right to me, is all. I'm sure they're grossly overpaid-"

"They're grossly _underpaid_ , actually," Mary says, "considering the amount of hours they have to practice each week-"

"-and we're supporting it by watching their insipid reality show."

"Great! Fine! Good!" she exclaims, snapping the elastic hair band off her wrist and pulling her hair up in a frenzy, her hands getting tangled as she tries to rope it off, "no, no it's good, I'm glad to know what you _really_ think of me!"

"Mary," he says, "you're being a _little_ dramatic, don't you think?"

"I mean, it's what I've always assumed you thought, anyway," she says, shrugging, getting up from the couch, "given that you never bothered to go to a _single_ one of my competitions or games, I just haven't heard you say it in so many words-"

"Now, Mary," he tuts as she grabs her shoes from in front of the doorway and starts tying her lace-up boots, "you know I was very busy during your childhoods, I never managed to go to _most_ of any of your events-"

"But you managed to go to Anne's Speech and Debate competitions! And George's! And George's soccer games, and Anne's recitals, and George's-"

"That's enough," he says, finally putting the paper down, "you're being-"

"And I _don't_ think," she snaps, yanking her coat from the hook by the door and sliding it over her shoulders, "you ever told _them_ that _their_ extracurricular activities were, quote, a complete waste of time, UNQUOTE! Did he?" she asks, looking from one shocked sibling to the other, "no? I didn't _think_ so; I figured you would've told me if he did, so, awesome, that's _another_ thing I know for sure now!"

"It wasn't a complete waste of time, I never said that. You got a good amount of exercise, I know how important it is to girls to keep their figures-"

"Oh my GOD!" Mary shouts, hands fumbling over the buttons than run from the skirt of her coat to the collar, "why won't these _close_ -"

"I simply said I thought there might be better _uses_ of your time. That's all," he says, placating, opening his hands in the type of gesture a priest might use at the end of a sermon and then closing them.

"You thought it was frivolous," Mary says, buttoning her coat still, "you can at least admit _that_ , Dad, can't you? I know _that_ was one of the words you-"

"Yes, fine," he snaps, "I _might_ have, yes."

"You know what, though," she says, grabbing her scarf off the other hook and wrapping it around her neck, "you were wrong. It _wasn't_ a waste of time. Cheerleading and dance experience helped me. _Dance_ is what's paying my scholarship. _Dance_ is what is paying my way through college. _Not_ you. So you don't _get_ to talk down to me about it anymore!"

"Mary!" he exclaims, getting up from his chair, "that is _quite_ enough, I will not-"

" _I'm_ an adult now, so I don't _have_ to put up with it. And if _you're_ an adult, too, you'll admit you were wrong," she says, opening the front door, "but I _doubt_ it."

 **6:19 PM**

The slam of the door reverberates behind her.

"Well," Thomas says, clearing his throat, "I'm sorry about-"

"Why would you _say_ that?" Anne exclaims, shaking her head at her father, "why would you make some snarky comment about something she's been doing for _years_ and _years_ and _not_ expect-"

"A Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader makes $50 a game," George reads from his laptop, "wow, they really _are_ underpaid!"

"I'm going to my study," Thomas says, muttering, "hopefully she'll get over her temper tantrum, it's below freezing outside…"

"Anne says she has a scholarship too," George continues, "but you won't help Mary? Didn't she say something about you not paying?"

"Yes, well," Thomas says stiffly, "this is really none of your concern-"

"You pay for Anne's, though, right? Whatever her scholarship doesn't cover?"

Anne looks down at her lap, picks up her book, gets up and takes a seat on the armchair her father's left unoccupied.

Thomas grimaces, his gaze fixed on the window behind the couch, watching Mary as she walks down the sidewalk.

"Light of your life, little genius, darling of your heart, polyglot Anne?"

"It doesn't matter, George," she says quietly, turning a page.

"You have to be…you're paying for textbooks or the meal plan or something, right? You're paying for extra living expenses? You _have_ to be."

His father's mouth is set in a firm line.

"No…I don't believe it. Is this true?" George asks, looking from his father to Anne incredulously.

A pin dropping would be deafening in this moment.

"Wow," George says after a beat, scratching the back of his neck, " _hell_ of a way to treat the favorite."

 **From: Anne Boleyn**

 **To: Mary Boleyn**

 **Sent December 15, 2016, 6:37 PM**

Where are you? I can walk with you.

 **From: Mary**

I need to be alone right now.

 **6:40 PM**

Mary ducks her head, the harsh wind and snow smarting at her eyes (which had already been tearing up with no extra help from the elements, _thank-you-very-much_ ), and yanks the hood that's inside her jacket up and over her hair when she collides with someone else on the sidewalk.

"Ow!" she yelps (it feels like she just bonked foreheads with someone _very_ bony), "watch where you're-"

"Mary?"

She winces, rubs her forehead, and looks up through her lashes at someone that's at least half a foot taller than her.

"Oh, God," she groans, "what are _you_ doing here?"

 **6:42 PM**

Not the warmest of greetings, to be sure, Henry thinks, but he did just bonk her on the head, after all.

The wind has chilled him through his winter coat. He had taken his hat off a few blocks ago ( _hat hair is not a good look for anyone_ ), and his ears are stinging with chill so now, of course he regrets it; but it might have padded his forehead a little (in retrospect)…honestly she just came out of nowhere, jolted forward as she yanked her hood up, and he hadn't swerved in time, but then you don't walk down a sidewalk in the snow and expect someone to head-butt you out of nowhere, so…he's not really sure _he_ should be blamed for this, at any rate.

"Who, me? I was just… in the neighborhood," Henry quips.

"No," Mary says flatly, crossing her arms, "you weren't."

"Well, I wanted to talk to-"

"I know who you want to talk to. Have you heard of cell phones?"

"Wow, Mary," he says dryly, wiping snow out of his eyes, checking out the house numbers to see how close he is to 1526 (he's been walking on Hever Road for about a mile now, a charming road, with Victorian style houses and lined with sycamore and oak trees, but it's hard to appreciate its scenic beauty when _it's this. fucking. cold._ ), "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't want me here."

"She just doesn't need this right now, okay?" Mary says, cramming her hands in her pockets, her huffiness causing her breath to make shapes in the cold air.

"You're the one that gave me her address. What changed?"

" _You_ know."

"No, I don't-"

"God!" she snaps, her cheeks flushed, "I am so tired of everyone treating me like I'm stupid! I'm _not_ fucking stupid!"

"I don't think you are-"

"I know I'm not as smart as Anne, or whatever, but-"

"You could be more smart than she is, for all I know," Henry says with a shrug.

Mary gives him a scathing, ' _please_ ' sort of look.

"Alright, probably not, but not because you're _dumb_ , just because _most_ people aren't by default."

"You probably saw me," she continues, looking up at a streetlight, up at the sky and the snow, laughing as she does so, shaking her head, like she's talking to God, " _you_ probably saw me for the first time and thought, ' _Hey_! This girl looks like she's dumb, I'm sure she'll want to sleep with me!'"

"No," he says, brow furrowing (because he really doesn't know what she's getting at, or where all this self-pity and self-deprecation is coming from…not that Henry knows her _that_ well, but it doesn't really seem like her), "I saw you and thought 'that's the most beautiful girl in this room.'"

"Great," she says, still looking up at the sky, "super."

"But then, I hadn't seen your sister yet."

"Gee," she snaps, looking at him now, "thanks _a lot_."

"It's not a diss at you," he reassures, twirling his hat around in his hands, "you're very pretty, just…I could be in a room with her and Victoria's Secret models, and I'd think she was the most beautiful girl in the room. That's just how it is for me."

Mary purses her lips and squints at him.

"So you fucked me," she says bluntly, "and when you _talked_ to me…you thought…?"

 _Are we still on this?_ Henry thinks, but he tries to rack his brain nevertheless (since she seems pretty determined for answers, determined in general, actually) going back a few months in memory…that warm August night feels distant right now, as the snow falls around them on the other side of the country, but he can remember. He can remember her, wearing the lace-up boots she's wearing now, looking incredible, doing his wink-and-leave signature move, having it work, not at all surprised when he saw his intended target walk up to him on the pathway in front of Beta Thau House…

"Mmm, let's see, well, first…'this girl is really hot and she's asking to hook up, and that's awesome?' And then, when I actually spent time talking with you, I thought 'she's sweet and funny and seems pretty awesome, too'."

"Hmmm," she says.

"I don't know where all this is coming from, but I texted you more than you texted me, if you recall. It just didn't happen. I didn't think you were dumb. I _don't_ think you're dumb."

"Right."

"You don't… _like_ me, do you?"

Henry's not known for a small ego, but he thinks this possibility's unlikely. Still, she's talking about what he thought the first time he saw her and…it's weird.

"Like, as a person?" Mary asks, confused.

"No, like because we got together-"

"God, no!"

"Good, because-"

"I'm with someone, anyway," she says.

"Oh? Who?"

"None of your business."

"That's a bit of a mouthful, for a name."

"You know what?" Mary snaps, tugging on the ends of her scarf, "I'm not into this whole Prince Charming bit. And, actually, I think you should go."

" _No_."

 **6:54 PM**

His eyes are steely, the set of his jaw determined, the snow dusting his eyelashes not doing anything to soften his image.

And before today Mary might have backed down, but she just confronted her father for the first time ever, and he's always been this scary, awe-inspiring figure to her, ever since her childhood, so she's feeling brave. Henry may be rich, and he may be intimidating, and he might exude a kind of power and confidence rare in someone her age; but Anne is her _sister_ and in her eyes, she's already let her down by not knowing about his situation earlier. She already let her tread into territory to get hurt, but Henry's the one that invited her in.

"Do you _really_ think," she says, getting in his face, "I would've given you our address for your letters if I had known you were engaged?"

"I-"

"You lied to me! And you lied to her."

"Mary, I know you don't-"

"Your 'Victoria's Secret models' speech? _Very_ sweet," she says scathingly, nodding to herself, "she might even melt if she heard it. But here's my question: what happens if Katherine-"

"You know her name?"

" _Yeah_ ," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I know her name. Do you?"

"Of course," he snaps, "I'm going to try to-"

"You are NOT talking over me here, I am talking over you! This is _my_ street, this is _my_ city, this is _my_ sister, and you are going to answer _my_ fucking questions," she yells, pointing to herself emphatically on the last 'my'.

He blinks, slowly, his expression like he's just been slapped with the force of her words.

"In this hypothetical, dream room," she continues, tone calmer now, "with Anne and Victoria's Secret models, you say Anne's the most beautiful girl in the room, right?"

"Yes, of course-"

"Which means…you'd pick her? If you had to make a choice, between one of them and her?"

"Yes!"

"And that's sweet, like I said. But what happens if this room has models, Anne, and Katherine?"

"What?"

"Is Anne still the most beautiful girl in the room, and Katherine's…what, the second? Is Katherine the most beautiful, and Anne the second? Actually," she says, waving a hand, "let's disregard beauty for a second, I just want to know: who would you pick? Because now the 'models' are gone, in the equation, and it seems a little less sweet. Doesn't it?"

"I…I…wait," he says, closing his eyes as if in pain, rubbing his forehead with one of his hands, as if trying to relieve a headache, " _wait_ a second-"

"Who do you pick? Anne or Katherine?"

He huffs, and she can see the white whirls of air that come out of his nose, he twirls his hat in his hands some more, but, ultimately, says nothing.

"Wrong answer," Mary says.

"I didn't say-"

"Exactly. Wrong answer."

"I'm _trying_ to figure it out-"

" _Trying_ and _lying_ are not the same as knowing. And you should've 'figured it out' before you came here!"

 **6:59 PM**

"You know what?" he snaps, ( _where does she get off, exactly? swooping in like some sort of avenging angel, the snow falling in the background somehow lighting the scene for her fury? he doubts she's perfect, doubts she's never done anything morally grey in her life…what gives her the right to act like she's so superior?_ ), "I don't need this."

"Great! Then _leave_."

"No!"

Well, it seems they're at an impasse. She, arms crossed. Him, arms crossed. Chins jutted out, gazes determined.

"I just…"

Henry trails off, drops his arms, sighs.

"I just want to talk to her," he says, "really."

"Nine letters wasn't enough talking?" she asks, imitating shock, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him.

"No…I explained some things, but not everything. Not the things I know she's…wondering about."

"Fuck, it's freezing," she mutters, kick a twig on the sidewalk onto the grass, "will you tell her the truth?"

"Of course. What do you-"

"I mean it, Henry. If she has questions, will you answer them honestly? Even if the answer's 'I don't know'? Because she deserves that, at least."

"I know. And I _will_ ," he says emphatically, "I promise."

 **7:03 PM**

Mary studies him. He's earnest as hell, hands in pockets, eyes intent and serious on her.

He had been so excited to ask her if he could have Anne's address back in November, so bashful when he admitted that he liked her, so careful in mentioning it…she could tell he didn't want to hurt her feelings, or offend her.

"We're friends, right?," was what he had asked back then, so unsure, "Is it weird, I feel bad asking, but I don't know how else to get it…"

And she had told him that it was a little weird, but not really a big deal. That she didn't carry a torch for him or anything like that.

Mary hadn't known for sure if Anne reciprocated Henry's feelings for her at that point, but she had figured, _hell, what's the harm_? If her sister didn't like him back, Anne would have a nice Christmas present either way from him, probably (he hadn't specified letters, just said "something romantic" and that was where her mind went).

In the past, Mary had always gone for cockiness, boys that were a challenge…now she realizes it's because she didn't really want them in the first place; that she just wanted to prove to herself, or convince herself, that she did. Now, of course, she knows the 'chase and conquest' aspect of it all was her trying to cover up the inevitable feelings of disappointment she always had after sex with a feeling of victory, instead. _I'm pretty enough that I got him_ , she'd think the morning after, _time to be happy about that_.

But Henry doesn't seem so cocky now. He seems fragile and desperate, and he came from New York to see Anne…Mary's conflicted, to say the least. For every good thing there's a bad thing to match it: his concern for Anne when she was sick (but he's engaged), him sending her boots when she broke hers defending herself (but he didn't tell Anne he was engaged, she had to find out), that he helped her study for her history final (but he made her cry)…

"You promise you'll tell her the truth?" Mary reiterates, because she needs to make _sure_.

"Yes."

"Fine," she says, sighing, she turns around and begins walking in the direction of her house, "I don't approve, but fine. I won't body-block you or anything."

"'Body-block me?'" he asks, following her down the sidewalk.

"Mmhmm," she says.

"Like, from going inside the house?"

"Yeah."

"You think you could do that?"

"I know you're like, quarterback and all that shit," she says, "but I dance twenty hours a week. I think I could block you if I needed to."

 **7:18 PM**

They walk in silence, the sky a dusky gray above them.

The tension is palpable, but it's worth it to get to Anne's door. To Anne. As is the cold, as was the train ride, as was the confrontation… _it's worth it_ , he thinks, _she's worth it_.

"Have you been to D.C. before?" she asks, voice flat.

"Yeah, of course," he says, blowing warm air onto his hands.

Henry supposes that etiquette dictates that it's his turn to ask her some sort of small-talk-question, but he can't think of anything. They know what the weather is, they're walking through it. They know how much better it is in Los Angeles comparatively, they both go to school there. Mentioning it would feel disingenuous at best, smarmy at worst.

"How are you?" he asks, instead.

"Fan-fucking-tastic."

 _Well, then._

 **7:25 PM**

"Well," Mary says, nodding to the Boleyn home, "this is it."

"Great," Henry says, following her as she steps onto the grass of the front yard, "you have a really nice house."

"Where," she asks, turning around to face him, "do _you_ think you're going?"

"…your front door?"

"Oh, no," she says, laughing, shaking her head, she pushes his shoulder till he walks backwards, "no, no, no, no, no…"

"Okay," he says irritably, "cut it out-"

"No, no, no, _no_ ," she shakes her head again, " _you_ are not walking up with me."

"Excuse me?"

" _I_ am going inside," Mary explains, smiling serenely, "and _you_ are going to walk around the block a few times…I'd say, give me a fifteen minutes head start…and when you get back, you will have the pleasure of knocking on our door and meeting our father. _Alone_ ," she emphasizes with a wolfish smile, patting him on the chest and wrinkling her nose (a cute sight, she knows).

Henry gapes, stutters, "you can't be serious-"

"It's not personal," Mary says with a shrug, "it's so I know that a) you're not full of shit, b) how much you _really_ want to talk to Anne, and that c) you really are planning on _just_ talking to Anne."

"Right," he says dryly, "not personal at all."

"Oh!" she says, clapping her hands together, " _almost_ forgot…make sure not to skimp on those fifteen minutes, either, or I'm going to let Daddy Dearest know you're engaged, and he will _never_ let you inside to meet his favorite. So ponder that," she says, tapping her forehead, a ' _think_ ' gesture, "ponder that, Henry."

 **7:26 PM**

Mary opens the front door, closes it, and speed-walks to the kitchen, passing her father who's sitting downstairs and having what seems to be a very harsh, serious discussion with George.

"Mary," she hears her father say as she opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water.

"No," she says, but it gives her a jolt to say it ( _'no' is a powerful word, if you think about it_ ), walking past him, leaving the kitchen and making her way upstairs.

She walks to the hallway upstairs and sits, uncapping and drinking her water, first.

Mary has a decision to make: does she tell Anne now or wait till the last minute?

If she gives Anne more time to freak out, she figures, or, more like, if she gives her _too much time_ to freak out, it could be bad. It may result in a panic attack.

And it will give her time to get ready, prepare, dread, pick the perfect outfit, agonize, etc…

So, she decides, she will rip off the band-aid. She will rip it off at the last minute, and not give Anne any extra time to pick the wound beforehand, because Anne is a wound-picker.

Mary is a band-aid ripper and Anne is a wound-picker; these are the basic dynamics of their relationship. And she shouldn't mess with that.

 **7:40 PM**

Anne opens her door as soon as she hears a knock, and is flooded with relief to see her sister on the other side.

Her cheeks are flushed with cold and there's a little dampness to her hair ( _melted snow, maybe?_ ), she has more fly-aways than usual; like she usually gets when her hair's been wet.

"Mary," Anne says, "I'm so sorry, really-"

"Henry's here," Mary says, shortly.

 **7:41 PM**

"I just don't understand how _this_ is how things-"

George's words are interrupted by a knocking on the door.

"Who is that?" Thomas asks, grateful for the interruption, "are you expecting someone?"

"No, why would I be expecting someone?"

Thomas opens the door to a young man wearing a royal blue knee-length coat and jeans. He's standing, quite politely, he notes, a respectful distance from the doorway.

The tips of his ears, his cheeks, and the end of his Greek nose are red. He's quite handsome, with the angular face and full lips of one of those billboard models, long lashes, clear skin and he looks… _familiar_ , though he can't really recall where he knows him from; he gets the sense that is someone important from the way the boy carries himself.

 _Good posture_ , he thinks, though standing up straight this _boy_ is at least five inches taller than him, not a fact he's too fond of.

 **7:41 PM**

"What?" Anne asks, dumbly.

She could not be more stunned than if the words that just came out of her older sister's mouth were "Obama's here."

 **7:42 PM**

"Can I help you?" Anne's father inquires, after he's given him a onceover a few times.

Henry sees the face of a younger man, one that resembles the one in front of him quite a bit, peek over Mr. Boleyn's shoulder.

"Oh holy sweet Jesus," the younger man says upon seeing Henry.

"George!"

"Um…" Henry says, somewhat thrown off by that exchange, he attempts to regain his composure, "yes, I'm here to see your daughter?"

" _Which_ … _one_?" he asks slowly, almost-black eyes boring into him.

 _Holy shit._

It takes every ounce of self-control Henry has not to squirm under the intensity of that gaze; but he manages to hold his ground.

"Well," Henry says, swallowing, tugging at the collar of his shirt, "I'm here to see Anne."

 _That_ seems to only _increase_ the intensity of the older man's stare, if anything.

"Really…" he says, "in _ter_ est _ing_ ," Mr. Boleyn somehow makes every syllable _really_ count on that last word, "interesting turn of events."

 **7:42 PM**

"Henry's here," Mary repeats, "I thought you would want to-"

"Henry who?" Anne asks in a high-pitched voice, nervously tugging at the collar of her hoodie.

 **7:42 PM**

"May I come in?" Henry asks.

"I suppose," Anne's father drawls.

But, rather than open the door all the way for him, he stays in exactly the same place he was when he answered it, his frame blocking the doorway, so that if Henry _wanted_ to walk in, he'd have to push past him.

"Um…"

"Oh, Jesus, Dad," he hears the younger man (' _dad'? oh, right, this must be George, her brother_ ) say before he pushes the door the rest of the way open for him himself, "let the poor boy in, it's colder than hell out there."

"Hell is _hot_ ," Anne's father says (in a voice that makes it sound like a threat), "and I was just about to George, _honestly_ ," he scoffs, moving and letting Henry walk into the foyer, "you _do_ have a flair for the dramatic sometimes."

 **7:43 PM**

Mary gives her a 'really' look and says, "Tudor, of course. Do we know any other Henry's?"

"Well, Percy," Anne says, taking a seat on her bed, "and…and…Ford."

"Henry Ford?"

"Yes!"

"Henry Ford…who's dead?"

"Yes," Anne says, primly, folding her hands on her lap, "that one."

 **7:43 PM**

"Can I get your coat?" Anne's father asks.

"Oh, no, thank you," Henry says hurriedly, fingers reflexively closing over the gift box inside his pocket, "I'm fine."

"Sit, please," the older man offers, with a flourish the couch, while he takes the armchair of the living room, the one that directly faces their TV.

"Thank you, sir," Henry says, taking a seat (George occupies the couch cushion seat closer to his father, which should act as a buffer, _thank God_ ).

 **later on:**

"Henry is…here?" Anne repeats, bunching her comforter in her hand, "Henry Tudor?"

"Or a very lifelike Henry Tudor hologram," Mary deadpans.

"Like," Anne says, face turning red, hand fluttering to her chest, "is he-"

"I ran into him on my walk- literally. I'm sure he's downstairs by now."

" _What?!_ " Anne shrieks, suddenly jumping off her bed and yanking the comforter off, " _WHAT_?!"

 **7:44 PM**

This Tudor billionaire kid is looking _pretty_ pale right now, almost like he's on the verge of fainting. But then, George thinks, Thomas Boleyn tends to have that effect on people.

"I'm going to go make myself drink," Thomas announces, slapping his thigh, before he gets up, "would you like anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Henry says.

"Beer?" Thomas presses.

"Don't say yes," George hisses under his breath.

"I wasn't- sorry," Henry says in a normal tone of voice, shaking his head, "no, _really_ , I'm fine."

Henry exhales as soon as Thomas leaves the room, deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath, then turns to face George.

" _Why_ would I say _yes_?" he asks, corner of his mouth quirking in amusement.

"You _could_ be dumb, I don't know…what you are. So," George says, "I thought I'd try to rescue you, just in case."

"I could do with some of that," Henry admits, rubbing his hands together, "any advice?"

"Look at his nose when you're talking to him…he's like Medusa. You don't want to make real eye contact. Always worked for me."

"Thanks," Henry says, "anything-"

" _WHAT?!_ "

George clears his throat, points upstairs, and says, "ah, that must've been our…cat."

Henry nods, as if this is extremely plausible, as if that was not the unmistakable, distinctive shriek of George's younger sister.


	25. Chapter 25

**author's note: hello! okay so if you want updates more frequently i would recommend checking this story out on archiveofourown. it's under the same author handle that i have on here, boleynqueens, and the same title "whitehall university". and i update chapters on there as soon as i finish them. that's not me trying to be mean, i have a few reasons for it: 1.) formatting on AO3 in much easier than here, i can do page breaks, i can do block quotes for letters/texts/emails, i can write links, i can write excessive punctuation (people text message with excessive punctuation so i feel it's realistic, but it FF doesn't let me do so), 2.) i can easily reply to all comments, even guest comments, which i can't do on here, and i very much enjoy communicating with my readers, so that's important to me (for example i have 70 comments and 37 kudos on archiveofourown versus 14 reviews on here, despite having more views on ff than AO3), 3) it's a lot easier to edit after i've posted and i notice a typo…here i have to upload a whole other document but on archive i just have to click to edit the text, 4) i can post links for the songs/soundtrack to this story in both the beginning notes and end notes.**

 **if you want to keep reading the story on here i still appreciate it, and i'll still try to update on here as well when i can. just a note that posting on AO3 is a priority for me, reiterating that it's not me trying to be mean/unfair to my readers on here, who i also appreciate, that it's only for the reasons posted above.**

 **anyway, happy reading!**

 **December 16, 2016, Friday**

Anne's father comes back from the kitchen, takes a seat in his armchair again, crystal glass of what looks to be scotch in hand.

He swirls it around, smells it, but doesn't drink.

Instead he levels Henry with a stare and begins to tap against his glass with his fingernails.

 _Tap…tap…tap….tap…_

The slow tapping is the only sound in the room, as Henry tries to pretend that it isn't, tries to pretend the older man isn't staring at him, his gaze fixed one the clock above the mantle on the fireplace even as he feels his eyes boring into him.

It's a test and he knows it, the Boleyn patriarch trying to psych him out, so he's not going to say a _word_ until he's spoken to.

 **7:49 PM**

"I can't be here for this," Mary says, crossing her arms, "sorry."

"What do you mean?" Anne asks, folding every single letter and putting it back into the drawer on her study desk, throwing the envelopes on top, and closing it hurriedly.

"I mean I don't support it. I think you should tell him to leave, actually."

"Why?" Anne asks, getting down on the floor and shoving the Little Mermaid bedspread, now all crumpled up on the floor, under her bed, all the way to the back until it's out of sight.

"He told me he just wanted to talk to you, but really…what could he tell you that you don't already know?"

"Well, I don't know," Anne says, pushing her chair into the desk, "but I'd like to find out."

"Look, Anne, I just…don't see how this can end well. And I don't want to see you get hurt, and you already have been…"

"Fine, Mary," Anne says, "go, then."

"I'll be in my room," Mary says, with a wounded expression, "get me when he leaves, I guess."

"Fine," Anne says, turning around and walking over the her window, back to her sister, observing the snow gather in clumps on the grass below, "I will."

Anne waits until she hears the door click shut behind her to give in to the feeling she's been pushing down since Mary warned her of Henry's arrival.

The feeling being: that she's folding up into herself, that she's a CD that keeps skipping a track, a song on repeat, getting caught on the same word, the same beat, over and over again. That she's a button hanging by a thread from a coat, hoping the next gust of wind doesn't make her fall…

Considering the impossibility of the situation before her, Anne takes a seat on the floor, then lies down on her back, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark star constellations still on her ceiling from the 3rd grade.

 **8:00 PM**

"Forgive the tension, please," George says, finally, throwing Henry a verbal life raft, "there have been a lot of hashtag awkward family moments today."

Henry shakes his head, shrugs, smiles, and waves a hand, hoping this conveys "oh, no, I don't sense that at all, really, everything is fine" without him actually speaking those words.

" _I_ don't feel tense," Thomas says finally, taking a careful sip of his drink, "George, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure," George says easily.

"Switch places with the boy…I have some questions for him. I like to be able to look at people directly when I'm speaking to them," he continues with a chilling smile.

"Sorry," George whispers as he gets up and trades seats with Henry.

Anne's father shifts in his seat, looking at Henry as soon as he's settled in to reclaim George's previous seat on the couch.

"What's your GPA?"

" _Dad_ …"

"No, it's fine," Henry says to George, then turning his head back to Mr. Boleyn, he answers, "3.5, as of now, sir."

"As of _now_?" he drawls, "what does _that_ mean?"

"Well, finals grades aren't posted till next Monday. When they are, I'll know what it is for sure."

"Mmhmm. And beforehand?"

"Sir?"

"What was your GPA at before finals?"

"3.5."

"Then I hope you did well."

"As do I," Henry says, resisting the urge to fidget, tug at this collar, tap his hand against his knee, anything, really, to distract himself from the scrutiny of this man.

Steadiness is a much-admired trait among older men. Or, at least, _this_ type of older man: the head of the family, the patriarch, with a deep timbre to their voice and a certain seriousness to their presence. Henry knows this from his father, who loses his temper rarely (though he often has cause to), raises his voice even less often, but still commands a large number of people, and does so well.

Stoicism and stillness are valued, as they demonstrate maturity and self-control.

Of course, Henry doesn't think about this much. He fidgets his way almost all the way out of his seat in class sometimes, and he's never embarrassed by it.

But he's thinking about it now, as he keeps mentally checking that he's not slouching, as he tries to keep his face in a neutral expression or easy smile, as he tries to appear unaffected by this inquiry rather than intimidated by it.

"And how many languages do you speak?" Mr. Boleyn asks, swirling his drink in his hand again, Henry's gaze flits to it, distracted by the flashiness of the amber-gold liquid as it catches the light.

"I…took Spanish in high school. I'm taking French at the moment, but I only just finished French I, so-"

"Are you fluent?"

"In…?" Henry asks.

It's hot in the living room, and he feels his cheeks warm. Henry knows he still can't risk taking his coat off, and what might be found in the pocket, but he figures he can at least risk losing his scarf, so he tugs it loose from around his neck while he waits for an answer to his question.

"Spanish."

"Well, I'm pretty good, I-"

"If you were stranded in the middle of Mexico, and your phone had died, would you be able to ask for directions easily? And then be able to follow them, back to wherever it was you needed to go? Without getting lost?"

"No," Henry admits, "probably not."

"Then you're not fluent," Anne's father informs him, picking the remote up from the arm of his chair and flicking the power on to the TV, he flips through the channels before settling on a black and white movie.

Henry prays for a reprieve, but he doubts one is coming.

"Anne speaks five," he continues, confirming Henry's doubts but no longer bothering to look at the boy that showed up on his doorstep while he speaks to him, "did you know that?"

"I did, she told me. She's pretty smart, I-"

"'Pretty smart?'" he snaps, "is that what you just said?"

George tenses, his hand gripping the bottom of his seat cushion, throwing Henry a look that seems to say _'God help you'_.

"I'm sorry," Henry says, "did I say something to offend-"

"Anne is _brilliant_ ; brilliant and dedicated to her learning. She takes after me in that way," Mr. Boleyn says, boastfully, "she was a National Merit Scholar, she was Valedictorian, she's won Speech & Debate awards, essay competitions…"

Anne's father jabs a finger towards the wall with the fireplace, still holding his scotch in his other hand, he points to the large picture frame filled with clipping and certificates above it and says, " _Those_ are only her top recognitions: awards, newspaper articles where she's mentioned, honors she's received…there are more, but I couldn't find a large enough frame."

"I'm sure _you're_ ," Mr. Boleyn emphasizes the last word scathingly, draining his drink and pointedly slamming it into the coaster on the table next to him, "'pretty smart'. Anne is something more."

 _Well, I fucked that up quickly_ , Henry thinks as he nods dumbly.

 **8:05 PM**

George feels so much second-hand-embarrassment at this moment that he winces, and he's not even the one that put his foot in his mouth, so he can't i _magine_ how Henry feels.

"What are your intentions?" Thomas asks, taking his glasses off and setting them on his knee.

"Jesus, Dad," George says, "what do you think this is, we're not in a movie set in the 1800s-"

Thomas raises a hand to his son, holding him off, never taking his eyes off Henry as he does so.

 _Well, I tried_.

"At the moment," Henry says slowly, carefully, "I would just like to speak with her."

"And in the future?" Thomas prompts.

 **8:06 PM**

"In the future," Henry says, trying to swallow his pride and bring forth his bravery, "I would like to date her."

" _Would_ you?" Mr. Boleyn says, cocking his head to the side.

"I would like that very much…sir."

 **8:06 PM**

"Well!" George exclaims, laughing nervously, he pats Henry on the knee once, awkwardly, "well, I don't think she even knows you're here, yet, so I'm going to…tell her…make sure she's not sleeping or something, ha-ha!"

"She's too good for you," Thomas says, expression fierce.

"Oh," Henry says easily, "I don't doubt it. But I would still like to, all the same. Sir."

"I'mma go," George blurts out, voice breaking, all but leaping from the couch, "I'm gonna go do, the thing, so…don't kill each other, please," he mutters under his breath as he walks up the stairs.

 **8:07 PM**

Anne hears someone knock on the door and feels like her heart's about to stop.

 _I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready…_

She goes up to her door, presses her ear against it and calls out, "who is it?"

"George."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

 **8:08 PM**

George's younger sister all but yanks him inside her room once she opens the door, slamming it behind her.

"Okay," he says, dusting himself off, "first of all, _chill_ -"

"I don't know what to do!" she says, eyes panicked, she bites her fist, "I've done nothing! I haven't gotten ready! I don't even know what to do first-"

"Do you know what 'chill' means?" he asks, watching her, bemused, as she starts to pace around the room.

"I don't-oh my God!" she exclaims, catching her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

Anne rushes over to her bed and sits on it, pulling her sweatshirt up and over her head.

George takes a seat at her vanity.

"Oh my GOD," she repeats, yanking her sweatpants down her legs and trying to kick them off, "he's _always_ doing this to me-"

"Doing what?" George asks, pushing different makeup selections around on her vanity.

"Dropping by unannounced! When I look like _shit_!"

"Okay, relax, I'll find you something," he says, leaving the vanity and walking over to her closet, he rummages through for a bit seconds, finds something reasonably cute and says, "here."

He shows her his choice, displaying it over his arm while he holds the hanger. It's a simple, scoop-neck black dress, fitted at the waist with a tiered skirt, covered in a pattern of pink and yellow wildflowers.

"I don't know, George," she says, standing in an oversize t-shirt and boy shorts, hands on her hips, mouth twisted to the side "it's _awfully_ short, and-"

"And your legs are _awfully_ long," he finishes, sliding the dress off the hanger and handing it to her, "so it'll look amazing, _you're welcome_."

"I don't know…"

"I know it's not the nun get-up you _usually_ wear, but-"

"I do _not_ dress like a nun," she insists, walking across the room and opening the door to her bathroom (to change, George assumes).

"What _ever_ , I'm burning all of your turtlenecks the second you leave the house! This isn't the '90s, Anne!"

"What?" Anne calls.

"Nothing," he trills.

Anne comes out in the dress, sighs and says, "I don't think this is a good idea, I haven't shaved my legs and-"

"I see nothing," George says, leaning down and squinting at her calves, "how long has it been?"

"Three days."

"Oh, please. It's fine."

"But I can _feel_ it," she says, taking a seat on the end of her bed and running her hands over her legs, "and they don't feel smooth; I feel stubble."

"I'm sorry, were you _planning_ on letting him touch your legs?" George quips.

"No!" she gasps, indignant and scandalized.

"Then it's _fine_. You do, however, need lip gloss, moisturizer, and mascara, which you have," he says, handing the items he just listed off to her (he grabbed them from her vanity while she was getting dressed), "so put them on, quickly, wear your black flats, and- oh, for God's sake," he snaps, " _that's_ how you're going to wear your hair?"

"What's wrong with- hey!" Anne exclaims as he pulls the elastic out of her hair and finger-combs it down, swishing it around her shoulders.

"I'll take my sweet time coming downstairs to tell him you're ready, alright?" he asks, putting both hands on her shoulders, "but I can't take forever."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he says, gently as possible, "that you kind of already _have_. The poor boy was still getting the third degree from Dad when I came up."

"Oh, God," Anne groans, rubbing her temples.

"Chin up, kid," he says, patting her knee, "you have a beautiful boy waiting for you downstairs. Most people can't say that."

"Wait, George," she calls when he goes for the door.

"Yeees?" he asks, turning back around to her.

"What…should I be doing?"

"Doing?"

"When he comes in, what should I be doing? Looking out the window, or…?"

George scratches his chin as he ponders this.

"Well, you can't just look like you're waiting for him."

" _Obviously_ ," she says, dabbing the lip gloss onto her mouth.

"Oh!" he exclaims, snapping his fingers, "be reading a magazine. It's cool, but plausible."

"Magazine," she mumbles, making wide eyes in the mirror as she starts to put on her mascara, "got it, thanks."

 **8:18 PM**

Henry knocks on the door with a floral "A" decal on it (a pretty good tip-off, he figures), then unbuttons and shrugs his coat off his shoulders in relief (Anne's father had cranked up the heat while George was upstairs, smugly asked Henry _again_ if he could take his coat for him, and he had had to refuse, again).

"Come in!"

He takes a deep breath, and reaches for the doorknob, but his hand slips off (nerves causing clumsiness and probably also perspiration). So he wipes his jeans on his hands, then wipes the sweat beaded on his upper lip off with the sleeve of his sweater.

 _Ready._

He opens the door.

Takes in the bed, a Queen size, covered in nothing but dark blue sheets. The picture windows, draped in yellow curtains, snow falling outside them. The oak floors, dotted with yellow throw rugs. Her walls, a light lavender color, covered in movie posters ( _Roman Holiday_ , _Amelie_ , _War and Peace, Casablanca, To Catch a Thief, Rear Window, Sabrina_ ). Shelves, overflowing with books, stacks of books in towers on the floor.

Then he takes in the back of her head, her black hair, long and tangled, a perfect storm, trailing over the back of a wheeled office chair at the desk by the window.

Anne spins around in the chair, eyes trained on a page, an open magazine in her lap.

She looks up with a stunned expression, and languidly blinks, as if just waking up, as if trying to make out something hazy that's very far away, but still in her line of sight.

"Hello?" she says, softly.

It seems that time away has made her even lovelier. She's _not_ prettier in memories(he had hoped for that, it might make talking to her easier, if he had just built her up in his head), in fact his memories don't even do her justice.

It's been twelve long days since he's been in the same room with her (he had ordered a delivery for her gift, same as he had for the shoes last month). Twelve days since this feeling, like he's drawn to her, a magnet, tugged by an invisible string; this feeling that he _has_ to be closer to her, that he doesn't have a choice in the matter.

Anne tilts her head to the side, hair falling over her shoulder as she does, exposing her neck, unsmiling (though not frowning), as if she's trying to solve a puzzle.

They haven't been alone together before like this, not really, not outside of school, anyway. Or…they've been alone together, but usually with an excuse (studying), or else not _really_ alone (at a party, or on campus, where anyone could come by).

He only wants to tell her things that are true and good, avoid telling her the things that are terrible but true, but he knows it won't be possible; not today. Not with his promise to her sister, and not with his promise to himself. He wants to look at her before anything changes, before he says anything that could possibly hurt her.

So he takes the chance to drink her in (who knows when or if he'll get the chance again?).

The details: a gold chain the falls over her collarbones, trailing down to the 'B' initial, over the expanse of her clavicle. Beauty marks that dot her jawline and the small expanse of her chest that's exposed, her arms. The taut muscles in her crossed legs.

The full picture: pale skin that glows like the moon at three am, eyes simultaneously dark as night and bright as stars, the sensual, full mouth, the proud little chin, aquiline nose, severely sharp cheekbones, somewhat softened by the waves that curl around her face.

She has a default severity to her expression, a sharp little face in general, so she usually looks serious. But when she smiles or laughs, it's transformative, and dimples peek out.

Her long neck, the small curves of her body: small bust sliding into a smaller waist, narrow hips, then impossibly, _impossibly_ long legs (how anyone this petite has such long legs must be some sort of scientific marvel, he thinks) that end in black velvet flats, with little bows.

"Hi," he says, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Do you want to put your coat down?"

"Oh, um," he fumbles with it, almost dropping it, "where?"

"On my bed is fine," she says, so he tosses it there, then, left with nothing to do with his hands, he puts them in his pockets.

"How did you get here?" she asks.

"I took the train," he says.

There's nowhere for him to sit.

Well, there's the bed, but he's not stupid and _that_ might have connotations she's not comfortable with, so he keeps standing.

" _You_ took the train?" she asks, teasingly, a corner of her mouth quirking up, eyebrows raised.

"Yes."

"From…New York to here?" she asks, closing her magazine and playing with the dog-ear on the cover, smiling a little.

"Yes."

" _You_ took the train?" Anne asks again, laughing.

"Yes! It's less time than driving, after all."

"Which ones?"

"Amtrak and then the Metro, the Red line, from-"

"Union to Farragut?"

"Yes. It was very fast. The last part, anyway."

"Four stops, eight minutes," she says, nodding, "we have a good transit system in D.C. It's something I missed."

 **8:22 PM**

 _You're something I missed._

Anne puts her magazine (an old copy of the New Yorker that was luckily on top of one of her stacks of books) down on the desk, searching for words, wanting to keep the train of conversation going, keep it light for as long as possible.

She doesn't want to hear things she…doesn't want to hear, she'd rather keep looking at him, rather make small talk that can be background noise while she imagines what it'd be like to trace the calluses on his hands, the curves of his mouth, trail a hand over the broad expanse of his chest, his shoulders…both of which are straining against the soft-looking royal blue of his sweater.

"Weren't you worried people would recognize you?" she asks.

"Ah…no," he says, "I mean, I wore sunglasses, and a hat. Besides, it's not like I'm famous."

"You're a _little_ famous," Anne says, squeezing a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.

"Oh?"

"I mean, I didn't really realize that, at first," she admits, chin in hand, "because my source of news is typically NPR and Wall Street Journal and the New York Times and…in retrospect, I guess I have heard and read about your dad, but not about you. But Mary's the one that reads tabloids and gossip magazines, and her primary source of information is E! News, and you're…in those. Sometimes."

"Right," he says, laughing a little bit, ducking his head, "sometimes."

 **8:23 PM**

"Do you want to sit?" she asks, gesturing to her bed.

"Sure," he says, surprised at the offer, "wow," he remarks, nodding to the window, "it's really coming down, huh?"

Anne spins in her chair to face the window, where the flurry of snow falling is so thick it's almost a total sheet of white.

"It is," she agrees, turning back to him, "good thing you didn't drive. No traffic, no 'bad-bad-weather drivers'…"

"Yes, good thing."

They sit for a while in silence. She plays with the end of her skirt, crosses and re-crosses her legs. He leans forward, folds his hands, leaving them in between his knees.

"So," he says finally, "you're probably wondering why I'm here."

"A little, yeah," she says, giggling.

"Did you get my letters?" Henry asks.

"Yes," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "I did."

"Right…" he trails off, then reaches over for his coat, pulling it onto his lap, he begins to feel around the pockets.

"First, though," he says, pulling out the gift-wrapped box, "this is for you."

"I…I returned that, Henry," she says, squirming in her chair.

"I know. Why did you?"

"It's just…too much. It's too much for me," she says, shrugging.

"Says who?"

"Says me, I don't think…it's not…something you should give someone when you have a _fiancée_ ," Anne says, biting her lip.

Well, he knew that word was going to come up eventually, but it still smarts a bit: his reality, his…'wife-to-be'.

Katherine _was_ his girlfriend, for a little bit, before he proposed. _Fiancée_ is a much heavier title. Girlfriend is so much easier to say, such an easier thing to end, really. He wishes he could rewind back to that, but everything's set in motion and it's just too late. Too late to reverse anything.

"I give my sisters jewelry for gifts," Henry says with a shrug.

"And I'm sure they love that…but," Anne says, putting a hand to her chest, " _I'm_ not your sister."

"I hope not," he deadpans, running his thumb over the box, "or this would be awkward."

Anne laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Please," he says, laughing with her, holding the box out, "please, take it. I had it made for you. I'm sure it'll look great on you."

"I'm sure it would, it's beautiful, I've seen it," Anne says with a sigh, "and I'm sorry, maybe you can return it, I'm sure it was very expensive, and-"

"It _was_ , but that's not…why I want you to wear it."

 **8:27 PM**

It would be so easy to get swept away by the gentleness of his voice on those words, to be lost in the captivating, stormy color of his eyes, ride away on those steely blue waves and ride out, and out, and not think about any consequences at all…

So that's why she needs to anchor herself. Against…him.

"Right," she says, clearing her throat, she rolls her chair back a little bit, figuring a little more distance between them won't hurt _(but it does, it does_ , she thinks as she notes the hurt expression on his face as she backs away, and worse than that is that it smarts her, too), "well, I'm sure 'expensive' doesn't mean a great deal to you, so I could see-"

" _You_ mean…a great deal to me," Henry says, hope shining from his eyes, piercing her through, and seeing his hope hurts because it's something she doesn't dare have.

But he still does. For her. For…whatever reason.

"You can't take it?" he asks, fiddling with the string on the outside of the wrapping paper, "even as a Christmas present? Between friends?"

 _Friends_ …she's not really sure how he can call them that with a straight face.

Friends who were unexpectedly given a stage direction to do a kiss would just do it, no problem, and laugh it off later. Friends do not send nine letters, over the course of three weeks, without breathing so much as a word about them, not letters that say "I want you", not letters that say "I wanted to kiss you tonight", and _certainly_ not letters that say "I've never felt this way about anyone before". They do not fight in the rain, they do not stand close enough to kiss while staring at each other's mouths (so obviously wanting to close the distance between them), they do not run away crying when they're informed that the other friend is engaged, and has been, for some time…

"I don't know, Henry…"

 **8:30 PM**

Thomas Boleyn has been pacing back and forth, circling around the kitchen and back to the living room, ever since George told Henry that Anne was ready to see him, ever since Henry went upstairs.

He'll go to the staircase, with momentum, like he's about to walk up them, then stops, scoffs or sighs, and circles back.

George is flipping through a _National Geographic_ magazine (the only magazine he could find downstairs that wasn't in French, _and of course it's a boring one_ …George likes elephants as much as the next guy, they're like, cute and whatever, but does he want to read a 10,000 word article about them? No, he does not. He makes a note to write the editor a suggestion to appeal to the Millennial crowd: a magazine that's similar to _National Geographic_ , but all pictures, with a 150 character limit) while this occurs.

It's amusing, at first, but when his father begins to talk he realizes any ensuing conversation is simply going to result in a downward spiral.

"I do _not_ like him. Do you think he got that?" Thomas asks.

"Yeah, I think you pretty much hit him over the head with that one."

"Little smarmy, pretentious…'sir' this, 'sir' that. What was _that_?"

"I think that was him trying to be polite, Dad."

"He wouldn't have _had_ to call me 'sir' if he had bothered to learn my name…notice how he didn't introduce himself?"

"You didn't introduce yourself either, if you recall," George points out.

"I don't even know his name! This little punk-"

"He was wearing, like, a $2,000 coat, that might not be the _most_ fitting description-"

"-is up there with my daughter, and I don't even know his name."

"Well, it's Henry Tudor, if that makes you feel any better."

"I know that name…where do I know that name from?"

"Red Dragon, if I _had_ to hazard a guess."

"What, do his parents work there or something?"

"Own."

" _What_?"

"His dad owns the company."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, that's the _last_ thing I need…"

"What? Maybe he'll buy us boats or planes…maybe even guest houses," George says, enjoying antagonizing his father immensely.

"Oh, _stop that_. This is very, very bad…even smart girls can be wooed by wealth…swept away…it changes everything."

"I don't really think Anne is like that, do you?"

"No, of course not," his father mutters under his breath, "but still…money can be very influential to young girls."

"Especially if their fathers won't help them pay for college?"

" _What_?"

"Nothing," George says, unable to hide his smirk, "just an observation."

"I should go up there," Thomas says, "I should go up there _right now_."

"Do what you want, it's your house."

"But then she'll think I don't trust her…"

"Then _don't_ ," George says, rolling his eyes.

"But of course I trust her…I don't trust _him_ , she would realize that, wouldn't she?"

"Whatever you think best."

"Oh, for God's sake, George," he snaps, "the _one_ time I _need_ you to have an opinion and you're a placating church mouse. Have _some_ input, you've _certainly_ never had any problems with that before."

"I'm worried that if I give you my opinion, you'll kick me out."

"I won't kick you out."

"Promise?"

"Yes!"

" _Pinky_ promise?" George asks, batting his eyelashes, extending his pinky finger.

"You _can't_ be serious."

George shrugs, flips a page (now it's an article about monkeys…monkeys are _not_ cuter than elephants, National Geographic is honestly _so_ annoying, this one doesn't even have fold-out maps, which are at least _somewhat_ interesting), and says, "Suit yourself."

His father sighs dramatically, but links his pinky with his son's, looking _terribly_ pained as he does so.

"My two cents? Pay for her school," George says, simply, "and Mary's too, for that matter. Don't make them pay for my mistakes. Or at _least_ supplement what their scholarships don't cover. Do that, and maybe neither of them will find the need to entertain rich suitors."

And with that, George gets up and leaves, closes the front door behind him, and steps out onto the front porch. He attempts to light a cigarette in the wind, cupping a hand over it, because even _his_ tolerance for rambling has its limits.

 **8:30 PM**

"Can I at least see how it looks on you?" Henry asks.

Anne knows that this is where she should shake her head, left to right. She knows that if she does, it'll be the last time she has to, that he'll put the box back in his pocket and they'll end up talking about something else.

But instead she nods, up and down.

"Can I see it first? Or, again?" she asks.

"Of course," he says, passing her the box.

She unties the string around it, rips the gift wrapping, and pops the lid open.

Anne stands up and walks to the other side of the room, then back again to the window, as she examines it carefully.

It's the same, of course, as it was the first time she opened it (the only difference was that it was in a gift bag, filled with tissue paper, that she had to sign for it): a white gold necklace on a delicate chain, the tiniest clasp, so pale it's almost silver, ending with a golden small envelope.

It has a sapphire where the stamp would be, the little triangle on the back has a sapphire in the center (as if to demonstrate a sticker put on the fold, as some letters have).

"How did you choose this?" she asks, feeling the smoothness of the envelope trinket.

"Well…for letters, which you miss. So you could always have one close to you. And then…sapphires for your birth month, and because you said you'd never want or buy diamonds, because of labor practices associated with them."

"I did?"

"Yes…you wrote it. On Facebook."

"You looked it up," she says, smiling.

"I looked it up," he admits, getting up from his seat on her bed and standing as well, "and I looked up the…purple doc martens. In case you had any doubts."

He seems to have a fondness for that phrase, Anne thinks.

 _"PS: I wanted to kiss you tonight (in case you had any doubts),"_ the words he wrote in one his letters to her, burn through her mind.

"I figured," she says, lifting the necklace out of the box. She attempts to open the clasp, struggling. It's impossibly small, and she cut her fingernails short yesterday.

"Need some help?" he asks.

"I guess…I don't have any nails," she explains, holding up her right hand.

The distance between them is short, so he bridges it, lifts the necklace from where it's hanging from her fingers with a gentle, careful touch, slowly ( _trying to prevent it from tangling or trying to touch my hand?_ Anne wonders). He opens the clasp easily, on the first try, holds the necklace by both ends.

"Turn around," he says, with a nod, and she does (and it's a little easier than facing him, she must admit, although knowing he's right behind her is a different kind of rush).

"Um," he says with a laugh, "can you lift your-"

"Oh!"

Anne fists her long, thick hair with one hand and twists it over her shoulder, holding onto it as he clasps the necklace from the back.

It feels cool against her skin, and she's still holding her hair when he traces his index down the length of her neck, down from the nape of it to the end of it, with agonizing slowness. Anne tightens her grip on her hair, still grasping it as she sighs.

 _"No idea why you want to cover up that pretty neck of yours,"_ he had said…which letter had that been? _Oh, the PS about the café uniform…_

He traces it again, this time from the bottom of her neck to the nape of it before she remembers herself.

"We have to stop doing things like this," she says, suddenly aware, heat crawling up her neck as she spins around to face him.

His gaze falls to her chest, and she's about to be offended when she realizes he's just looking at the necklace, then back up at her.

"It's perfect on you," he says, "I knew it would be."

"Henry!" Anne says, "did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, you said, 'we have to stop-'"

"Yes! We can't do things like that anymore," Anne says, deciding on a present tense to make it more clear, both for herself and for him…because really, "we have to stop" implies future, and "we can't" is firmer, anyway.

No one does things they "have to do", no one does things they're "supposed" to do, but if you can't, you can't. If you can, you can. It's far more definitive.

"Things like what?" he asks, picture of wide-eyed innocence, hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans like they hadn't just been caressing her neck moments ago.

"Like…like…" she struggles to find the right word for it, and settles on one of Anna's, "have 'moments'."

"'Moments'?"

"You touched my neck!"

"Did I? Huh. I didn't realize."

 **8:40 PM**

"Sit, please," Anne says, gesturing to the office-chair by her desk, and he does, leans back into it, levels her with a challenging stare.

"Tell me about her," she says, taking a seat on her bed, smoothing her skirt over her legs, which draws his attention to them once again.

"Katherine?"

"Yes."

Henry shrugs a single shoulder.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

 **8:41 PM**

Thomas Boleyn knocks, once, on Anne's door, panics when there's not an immediate answer, and opens it, imagining the worst.

But all he sees is the Tudor boy, seated on the chair by her desk, a respectable distance from his daughter, who's sitting atop her bed.

There are roses blooming across her face, and while Thomas doesn't _love_ that, nor what it implies, it's not the thing that startles him most about this picture.

"Dad?"

What startles him is not that they're kissing, or even sitting close, but that there's a different necklace around her neck, hanging above the "B" necklace she's always worn, ever since he gave it her for her eleventh birthday. What startles him is that the quality of the new necklace is unmissable even from across the room at the doorway, that it is likely at least ten times more than what he paid for her gift seven years ago.

It was her trademark, and she had always been proud to wear it, always answered the question from cashiers, other students, and dinner party guests alike the same way ("What does it stand for?"): "Boleyn, of course," with a laugh, a laugh that said "what else?" and pitied those that did not have such a fashionable signature.

There's a symbolism to it he doesn't like: one above the other.

And then, more so, what startles him is how the boy looks at her. Not lasciviously, as Thomas had expected, but with a radiance that transcends. He looks at her as if there is no earthly thing that could ever stop him from doing so.

Everything is much, _much_ worse than what he had been expecting, all around.

"I didn't want to be a bad host," Thomas says, clearing his throat, he holds out the two water bottles he grabbed from the fridge downstairs, "here."

She walks over to him, thanks him and tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Anything _you_ need?" she asks with a smile, tilting her head to the side.

He had, truthfully, been planning on making some pointed comment about how dinner would be ready soon, but _oh_ , what a shame, there really was only enough for four, _if_ that…another one about how they hadn't been expecting company, after all.

But at the moment that seems a sad, futile attempt that he'd rather not embarrass himself with.

"No," Thomas says, "carry on."


End file.
